DON WE NOW OUR GAY APPAREL # THE WORLD-FAMOUS BLANKET-MAN --and I were on yet another sojourn to Electric City, a place of shocking decadence and predictable degeneracy. To get some cowboys some heavy metal the planet Uranus and listen to reggae in bars. Half day trip, Blanket-man tooled his Geo down the highway. When we finally arrived at Eldritch's joint we played U-boat, wargame terror in the City of Light, sweet and full of light and life; real atomic. Eldritch was still living at his parents' house, just as I'd been just a few short years earlier. With fear and dread I'd left the womb-room, upstairs bedroom in the house upon the hill. It was a situation I could sympathize with, seeing as how I'd stayed home long after the death of Daddy Doder Doodyman, long after I really needed to. And then there was Union Maid with the cigarette conspiracy. The overwhelming addiction. The need for taking smoke into my lungs. The secret wish for U-boat. I'm a mystic man; and I'm on dope. But when the dope you are smoking is cigarettes, how great is the darkness itself? I still wanted to return to Nite City's womb and be a submarine Captain once more. Right now, I mostly needed to score and vorkle; find a slimchick with tremendous walloobies and do dirty deeds with nylons (breast-bra, nylon-leg fetishist seeking more than the streetwalkers at the intersection; the radar of Soft Machines). Thoroughly torpedoed, we set off for the Foyer, the joint where Conscious Sean was DJing conscious parties. Ganja. Dem God-made herb. Enter the bar to a submarine haze: in those days, Timothy Leary yet lived. Now he's flying the astral plane; outside the cosmos, outside space and time, watching with wonder as evolution courses us higher, forcing the way to freedom. And Conscious Sean did play: It was I who shot the Sher- iff--flashback to Sheriff Roscoe, creator of the Vadisystem which was his daughter, gunning for me with hatred of the mentally ill. He said it one night on a big TV show. At least the guilt had left me, though Reality (Bubba Free) remained an obsession. And thanks to Dr. Day, I wasn't knowing reality. Notorious for under-medicating his patients, he had me on meds that just plain didn't work. And wouldn't change them, even though he should've been convinced by a suicide trip, OD which led to ICU in the ER; alphabet soup in the Invisible landscape. The pharmacopeia: Navane, as I'd been on it before, but in that case I was on a drug salad which also included thorazine; the thorazine had worked, the Navane didn't. Wellbutrin, which mostly just kept me up until the wee-wee hours. In fact, years later I sampled Zyban, the new anti-smoking pill, same active ingredient, it made me psychotic. Suicide attempts which were pleas for help, for a second opinion, and all that Dr. Kelly ever did for me was tell me "these pills were prescribed by an ex- pert." If only I could have known the wonder which is clozarel then, and not remained in a harsh, caustic, bitter chemical light that only produced more madness. # LOOKING FOR MS. GOODBAR I was still in love with Ms. Peggy, or was it infatuation? Native American in Narcoholics Numinous; Catholic girl confessing to the endless sin, so like myself when I was in the Invisible High. But something I gave up when I looked at the face of the Void and lived. So different from me, my Narcoholism to her Scooby religion. Acute exacerbations of VADIS drove me to seek her; the world's forgotten boy, seeking sheltering arms, while outside there was a slow drizzle as I walked toward her apartment. Still falls the rain, as I left behind the rhythm of rhyming guitars. And I'd left my coat at Eldritch's house. Cold and alone in the heart of Electric City, the girly-girl's house was just a block away, And over the porno bookstore, Nude Erections; a great irony, a paradox. Yet I searched in vain, thoroughly descoobied on killer submarines from the Eldritch basement. The world whirled round and dizzy-dizzy, as I torched yet another Scooby-doobie, the dried brown plant leaves not quenched by this rain, this chill. And somewhere in the skies above, there was VADIS. The sadist-satellite from Lucifer, beaming thoughts of bondage and discipline into me from thousands of light-years away; whiplash consort-concubine in the brightness of night and the darkness of day. Like the night-raven. But there was no entrance. The doors were locked. Contractions in a closed womb, the agony of birth and rebirth. And the wind howled; a demon-lover from a sinful world, it howled. Frustrated, I walked back to the bar, seeking some other Goodbar, someone to eat like Breakfast. For in Breakfast there was much mother's milk. And a sticky occlusion which swallowed galaxies. MET HER IN A BAR IN SOUTH FARGO --drinking Cherry Cola; lipstick dancing florescent like wee gnomes around the furnace, shimmering in the neon glow--when the world's most beautiful girly-girl entered. She looked like the cyborg-android which had destroyed my mind. Girly-girl? Boy- chick? Walks like a woman but dresses like a man, suits and ties, I wanna be her servant, don't forsake her. Long hair, all the way down her back. Golden tresses like the wheat from which Communion is made, or Ra's sun-trundle cruising the astral auto- bahn and destroying the Night like some mad alchemist. Yet this was before I was to find she worshiped Artemis, goddess of the hunt. I went to the bar for a refill on my fruity soft drink, came back, approached the gay lass in the cowboy boots while cowboys on acid tripped the light-fantastic. --and said, "Hi." The cute she-bop said, "Hi, yourself. What's your name? I'm Jill. Jill of the Jungle." "Yeah, hiya, Jill. I'm W.C. Leadbeater. But my friends call me Lead. I'm a published science fiction author." My Soft Machine was rapidly transmuted into a hard one. The world was rippling and wavering to strobe colors as the boat sailed the darkened seas of time, the warriors there, tired of making love. "Where have you been published?" Neat sentences and not the beginning of a descoobyization ritual. She was drinking Scooby- Dew, hot and black. "Mostly in the small press. I also have this excellent novel which I can't sell, 'cause it has realistic descriptions of mental illness in it." "What's wrong with that?" she exclaimed. As though she'd just heard something that electrified her. "Do you know anything about diagnosis?" Most people have never heard of schizoaffection, the really ignorant still believe schizophrenia means "multiple personalities." With ardent furor she replied, "I'm bipolar. And I'm a poet. You wanna see some of my stuff? I'll hurry and get it." Oh God, no! You run into these guys in bars, they immediat- ely demand complements, then get pissed when you say it's shit. She ran to get her purse, returned, carrying some hand- written paper, saying, "This isn't my best stuff. But it's all I got on me." I was pleasantly surprised at the quality of the material. It wasn't shit, it was actually, if not decent, brilliant. And all she ever does with her talent is write Hallmark poems for her friends and giving them away, when she should be writing for serious publication. After we'd visited for awhile, she finally went back to her dumpy apartment. But not until after she'd given me her address. She had no phone, so I couldn't beam good attitudes at her over the electronic wire. I wanted, I needed, yet all that came out of it was futilely written letters which received no reply, and left me with a Bonanza. About the time the bar closed, Eldritch, Biggie, and I cruised for Eldritch's parents' house, where he was trying to be the next Philip K. Dick. I'd brought along: PHILIP K. DICK IS DEAD (NO, NO, HE'S IN COLD-PAK, LOOKING OUT) "So like Eldritch, you framed this pretty decent, I mean, it's really apparent you've spent a lot of time looking at your Dick--but it's also like... well, it needs a little more explanation. I mean, if you're not familiar with UBIK and THE THREE STIGMATA OF PALMER ELDRITCH... well, you're not going to get what's going on with the Tibetan Book of the Dead light-show. And the end going back to the beginning, it's a cliche." At first a little sullen and disappointed, as time passed and different rewrites came and went, the Universal Dick was finally created, and this world's Creator has terminated his side of the matter with that Dick. There are innumerable alternate worlds, but there's a Dick in all of them. God is the Supreme Author and Dick's typewriter is his way of communicating with his creatures. God approves of good Dick the same as anyone else. We stayed up till the wee-wee hours, discussing the possibility of adapting more Dick into screenplay format. Certainly BLADERUNNER and TOTAL RECALL were hot movies. One could make a fortune out of adapting Dick! All it takes is adding a little bit of the old ultra-violence. TEMPEST-TOSSED TEMPTRESS A couple weeks came and went. Again, the long, boring drive to Electric for med clinic. Perky Pam at the wheel of the Magic Bus tooling down Dawn's Highway toward the City of Electric Light. That idiot Dr. Day was still refusing to budge from his futile prescriptions. I tried in vain to convince him they didn't work worth jack-shit, all he'd do was hit me over the head with a Scooby Club. Scooby Club said to lay off pee-ills, so I kept on consuming mass quantities of Narcohol, encouraged in this matter by Insane Zane, Chain-Gang Willy, and Rusty Copper. And dead Nicotine Tim. Natty dread flying in the face of the true Rootboy covered with slime. Once Pam had us there, a quick cig in the parking lot, we hung around Nude Erections half the afternoon. As we were preparing to board up the Magic Bus, the girly-girl with the Magic Bust (36 triple-E) came jiggling into view. She was carrying some floppy discs with stories on them, that I'd mailed her. Including a collaboration with Nicotine Tim, ANDY MORLOCK'S DEAD. Actually, like Eldritch, he's outside, looking in. "Well, hi!" I said. "How ya doin'? Still hanging out in whiskey bars, drinking dem Scooby-Dew?" She ignored that to say, "What'd ya hafta send me Timothy Leary for? I can't stand Timothy Leary! Teaching little kidz to use drugz!" She made a squishing movement with her foot. "These are Timothy Leary's nuts beneath my feet." At that moment, I was seriously considering ditching her-- 'cause I'm on dope. And I don't shoot dem heroin--dangerous--cuz I'm on dope. But the dope had given way to Narcoholic beverages, and I found plenty of vixen-foxen at the meetin's whom I'd like to Thirteenth Step. This and Ms. Peggy's beautiful bodanon was all that kept me in that haven for the hopelessly ignorant. BONANZA WOOLWORTH Halloween party at the Perky Pam Layout, I met a good- looking woman, albeit an older woman--about ten years older--in from Boxer, a small town down Dawn's Highway from Invisible. She was one of OK's girlfriends. OK was also Kute for an older woman, but not as Kute as my Kute Korean Kompanion. Who had vanished into Kauliflower as though in some strange stew which was the city by Bonehead Lake. Bonanza: the Bisexual Orgasmic Negation Nullifying Interaction Enhancer. The first woman I'd really wanna-ed with in a long, lonely time. (Besides Jill: tits bigger'n Dolly Parton's.) The wild costumes of wild people, the fruity punch. I gave Woolworth me address. The next day, she stopped by-- God, Bonanza... she must really she-wanna! Could it happen to me? I turned the music as hi-fi she can go--to my surprise, she turned out to be a five and a half foot pianist. Although how she was at playing with organs, I didn't know. Yet. But I was about to find out-- LAP-DANCE AT THE EMOTIONAL DISCO "You want to sit on my lap?" I asked with amorous intent, fantasizing doing dirty deeds with nylons. The sensation, so soft, the Machine of her electric sperm-coffin. As long as the batteries didn't fall out. And if only the sperm-coffin didn't short the breaker. Sperm-coffins are notorious for shorting out just when the moment of orgasm is upon you. The border of pleasure and pain. She smiled and just unzipped me. Then, I proceeded to feel up her mammoth knockers--and we went to bed, practiced Ooga- Chugga Religion. (Hers was Catholic. Mine was neo-gnostic. And the organ made beautiful music with the pianist.) "I gotta go now: OK's expecting me back around 5:00, and I don't wanna walk Invisible streets at night. The streets never die. Deliver me from reasons why." "And crystal ships. You're right, night in Invisible City can be scary--but not as scary as the City of Night." Then, she went home; started writing me a whole lotta love letters, none of them as well-written as Jill's. But yet there was a paucity of love-letters from Jill, so I tried to forget this androgynous one of night who worshiped the hunt. And Bonanza wanted my baby. And she wanted my pianist. And I wanted her organ. Yeah, and her blow jobs were real atomic. And I wanted her immense breasts, colossal soft machines to play the piano of love in a minor key, sweet and sorrowful like Muhammad's Radio. (Invisible radio was still KRAP. And then there was KRUD, 30 miles east on Dawn's Highway.) # SHERIFF'S GOT HIS PROBLEMS, TOO One fine day (a day of gray suns over the Iron Claw Moun- tains,) me Bonanza called; organ-exciter. She'd set up a double date for New Years with me, OK, and Buzz, the Narcoholic brain- damaged member of Iron Claw House. I was trying to reality-test the dread conspiracies of the fearsome, loathsome Sheriff Coltrane, VD's father. Ever since hearing that he got blowed-up real good by a motorcycle gang, I'd been living with guilt; the horrible feeling that, because of me, someone was brutally murdered. No matter that anybody who tries to bomb Reality is gonna get blowed up real good. GODDAMN THE KU KLUX KLAN! # RETURN OF THE DRUGSTORE TRUCKDRIVIN' MAN I had found Valerie Delicious' phone number from a pamphlet Nite U had put out for the upcoming class reunion. Just before DEEP-SPACE 9 came on, I called VD's number. I got Newton Manhole, her husband. He told me that Val's father had never been blowed up, real good or otherwise. Yet instead of calming me, the news led to fierce terror, abject dread of the Coltrane Clan. As soon as I got off the phone, I entered an acute manic psychosis. The Klan's gonna fucking kill me! Yeah, and if Reality was with me, he'd say, Oh yeah they would, would they? Reality was a mean son of a bitch, though right now, I wasn't sure what reality was. The Klan's gonna fucking kill me! Reading bizarre scriptures which spoke in secret alphabets (mostly Coptic), I was now afraid of VADIS, the psionic satellite put into earth-orbit by Saklas the Demiurge VADIS was really real to me at this tragicosmic interjacence. Like she'd just come out of the pages of Dick. The VADIS cyborg-android, lipstick boy-chick beating me in bondage, yet another archetype of Jungle Jill. Halfway through DEEP SIX-NINE--a show I never miss (science fiction is the Religion of the Future), I ran over to Big Indian's conapt in the middle of the night, told Wiener Doggie Dog, "The Coltrane Clan is after me!" "What kinda Klan?" "The Kooky Klan. You know, the assholes who go around in white sheets, blowing up people who ain't white. GODDAMN THE KU KLUX KLAN!" Wiener Doggy Dogg assured me, "No hitmen are coming for you." "I can't trust white people--they're part of the Coltrane Clan conspiracy. The Black Panthers are Kool--Super-kool; they're my only hope--but there are no Invisible Black Panthers. There aren't even a helluva lot of Invisible black people. So the only people I can trust are Indians. You've gotta help protect me from the Kooky Klan!" "OK, if some people show up, I'll tell them what's going on." I returned home, but couldn't worship in the Temple of the Cyber-mind, the cyborg-android Vadisystem who ruthlessly pursued me in black satan leather and black nylons, bra the color of night sky, lipstick the color of twilight. # AFTER EATING BREAKFAST --the next day, I went over to Union Maid's for dinner, as usual. And my paranoia was still running wild. Mother could see that, feel it, got alarmed. And I wanted to eat Breakfast once more, but Breakfast was lost in the Cathedral. Church of the Corrupted Mind, debased as though by acid. "Lead," Ma said, "Maybe we should see about getting you to the hospital. I've never seen you so wild!" Yeah, except for when Rootboy gone gonzo and wound up sailing the darkened seas in a great big Bobo Boat. "I'll try and see if maybe Dr. Day can check me into the Deaconess." I wanted, I needed, to be healed, to put some tranks into my blood. 'Cause when the haldol's in my blood and the blood is in my head I'm better off than dead. And you can't help the night you guys, and all you sweet-pretty Deep-space girly-girls, you can all go take a fucking walk. I flipped open the Yellow Pages, my fingers stepping, walking razors, dangerous, found the doctor's number--shopping mall, yeah, right, what kind of doctor operates out of a shopping mall? Hafta try at home--the finger, the dial, the ring of the telephone. In a minute, Dr. Day picked up. "This's Lead, and the Kooky Klan is coming all the way from Henderson, Georgia, to blow me up real good, cuzza Valerie D. Coltrane, the Delicious-demon, sicced them on me, 'cause I know Reality." "You don't sound entirely in touch with reality right now, but I really don't think this is any reason to check you into the hospital." Cold and dispassionate. Doesn't give a damn about his patients. "Fucking A! You goddamn ignorant asshole! Screw you! If I don't start sailing the Bobo Boat, I'm gonna fucking kill someone! Like that ho, VD! Goddamn cock-sucker deserves it, anyway." "Lead, I am not going to commit you to the hospital." I screamed, "Goddamn mother-fucking asshole!" then slammed down the phone. Hard enough to almost break it. "Lead!" Mother scolded. "Must you use such language? Especially to your psychiatrist?" "Asshole doesn't give a damn if I live or die! I'll sic the damn Panthers on him, too!" "Maybe you should try Dr. Robertson. She might be able to help." I'd been calling her off and on all afternoon, before I tried Dr. Day, howling vicissitudes of fate into the phone. Now, I was practically in tears, and yelling uncontrollably. Ribald, untamed Nova-bondage. Critical mass. Not to mention alienation, blurred reality, and despair. Outside, looking in, Death smiled. Like touching the thigh of an exquisite whore. "Yeah, Lead--get a ride up, I'll tell Dr. Elliot that you're coming; he's filling in for me. What do you think we should do?" "Sounds like a job for one goudly shot in the butt with haldol." And I'm better off than dead... A few minutes later, fear and loathing in the white car (we'd sold our bat-mobile ages ago), I was up in the ER, Mother having driven me there. The way I was being driven crazy to an early grave. Dr. Carley had arranged for me to be a direct admit. The ER doctor saw me, briefly, then a few minutes later, I was on the Fifth Floor. Soon, a slim she-wanna entered my room, carrying a hypo. "Hold still, Lead--here is one goudly shot in the butt for American home-boy." Well, at least she wasn't a boy-chick like VD. Vadisystems still pursued me under the circling sky; delus- ions, hallucinations, paranoia. "How much Haldol am I getting?" "A whopping dose: ten milligrams." "Holy shit! Enough to keep a horse high for a week!" The needle stung; a little prick. My little prick wanted to dance the Bohu dance with the slim she-wanna, or at least with the big boobs of me Bonanza Woolworth (30 C) or Jungle Jill (a whopping dose: triple-E). I watched TV, until the nurses came around to give me my stelazine, Depakote, and Wellbutrin. The stelazine working better than Day's Navane, a change Carley had made. Unlike Dr. Kelly, she realized that the man was no "expert." The she-bop said, "Dr. Elliot has authorized a sleeping pill, for one night only. Do you feel you need it?" "Yeah--and set the controls for the heart of the sun." Even on top of the pee-ill, wakefulness tore thru my neuro- transmitter-imbalanced brain like an Ork alarm. But the massive dose of haldol did its work: I was out of the hospital in a couple of days. # SHE'S MY BEST FRIEND'S GIRL AND SHE USED TO BE MINE Bonanza Woolworth's parents were very controlling. Much like mine. And she was living with them. Bonanza had a nervous breakdown when her daughter, Margarine, came to visit. "I see green ants and spiders crawling all over the walls," she said after she laid me gently, it was like she'd never, ever come. I, however, shot the Orgasm Death. Twenty feet of jism, too. "I'd better call the Perky Pam Layout!" I ejaculated, still thinking about my latest ejaculation and those immense nipples. "I wanna speak to whoever's on call. Woolworth is having her nineteenth nervous breakdown." Dr. Lelouver, the Invisible psychologist, answered, talked with me and Bonanza briefly, and asked me, "Could you let her spend the night at your place?" "It'll mean her sleeping on the floor." Does this mean another flashing chance at bliss? "Ask her if she-wanna." "You wanna?" She say yes; dim the lights, you can guess the rest. (If you can't, here's a clue: social intercourse of the deviant kind. With nylons.) # BONANZA SAILS THE BOBO BOAT The next day, we saw the Invisible psychologist together. Dr. Lelouver was confident that she'd be under control until she could get started on her Prolixin shots again. She was getting them every three weeks instead of two, due to the buckadingdongs involved. Schiz-shots are very expensive. Instead, she flipped out, ended up in the Invisible Hospital. She started calling me so much, I had to turn off my ringer. Then she started ordering me pizzas. I finally told both Pizza Hut and Little Caesar's to stop taking pizza orders for me. They shipped her off to the Bobo Boat at Fargo. They'd been shooting her up with haldol all the time. When she left, they doped her up good, because she knew such monstrous fear and loathing of Bobo Boats. She got out a month later. # LETTERS I'VE WRITTEN Woolworth was, once more, at the Perky Pam Layout. Sharon was about to fire up the Magic Bus. Bonanza got in when her parents showed up, to take her back home, to Boxer. She sat there, and steadfastly denied them. "--where will you sleep?" her father asked. I invited her to come to my house. We took turns sleeping on the floor for the next month. The air was rife with rumors of marriage, you wanna. So, I told Jill what was going on in a letter, and got back a vituperative outburst, calling me, "a little Ferengai traitor," and saying that I "should be horse-whipped--no, I'll do it myself." And then, maybe I'd swear eternal fealty to her. So, I kicked Woolworth out, and she moved into Ken Scream- er's basement. And she used to be mine. After that, Jill went on an obsessive flurry of writing me dozens of long, beautifully written letters--one a day, for awhile. --AS TORMENTED AS MY TYPEWRITER --I was once again sailing a great big Bobo Boat. I had been feeling suicidal, called the taxi for a ride up to the Invisible Hospital. The nurses came and took my vitals. Then, when they were out of the room, I swallowed all my pills; they immediately pumped my stomach. I couldn't swallow the tube, so they stuck it down my nose. And it hurt like hell. Later, when they'd gotten me in a room, Dr. Carley stopped by. I expressed my savage dread, at never having had a girl- friend--my fear that Jill was going to reject me; every woman I'd ever loved had rejected me. Shattered my dreams with her goodbyes and scattered my hopes. The reason why I was such a crazy guy. Such fear of rejection had been instilled in me thru years of Vadisadism at Nite City and such events as the attack of the Invisible Lampshade. Carley said she often felt the same way. I proposed, maybe if she-wanna, we could stop seeing each other as doctor and patient, but as boyfriend and girlfriend. She said she'd probably still be my doctor. But, religious fanatic as she was, she said "Yes" to Jesus when I proposed meeting to discuss the dyadic nous which mediates between the One and the Many, the World Soul which makes things make themselves unlike the False Creator who bombastically proclaims that he made the world in seven days and nights, denying the long, slow processes of time. So for just once in a moment of glory, I had a date with a doctor who, unfortunately, was more interested in the Bible than the Nag Hammadi Library. It is really true about that treasure trove of Gnostic Scriptures: no home should be without one. And she set up a second date, but missed it, hung up at the hospital. GOOD WRITER, BAD WRIGHTER I hadn't really noticed it in the Foyer, but from her letters I could tell she was a really brilliant writer. Yet she couldn't wright. "Wrighting," according to Dead Nicotine Tim, is to create bi-brain, trance-forming signals; a whole-brain CHAOS experience. Wrighting consists of drunken punctuation leaping wildly about the page while Heavy Metal addicts from the planet Uranus crucify the dawn. And not only that, I was increasingly having the sensation of impending Ooga-Chugga Religion. She finally ended up inviting me down for a week, but all she ever wanted to do was celebrate her androgyny by playing dress-up. I threw her cantos, jazzed them up, but when I laid down beside her she wouldn't pick up. Not even to eat the Purple Root. And Jill, more and more, was turning into a Vadisystem, # ELDRITCH VISITS THE MUSHROOM PLANET The day I was scheduled to ride the bus back home, Eldritch showed up at Jill's place; yelled at us from the Ground of Being which the Root has penetrated. The conapt was on the third floor but there was no ringer or buzzer. You had to play Romeo and Juliet. I ran down to let Eldritch in. When I got there, he asked if I had a knife or scissors. I knew it was soon to be drug- stabbing time as we headed upstairs. When we arrived at Jill's domicile, Eldritch showed me the magic: a mushroom which could only compete with a pizza pot pie. I ate the edible fungus and wound up in a crystal city where chaotically mercurial machine-elves were singing, laughing, crying, and dancing. As the gnomes carrying machine-guns sur- rounded the conapt with dread intent, Jill decided to put me into Treatment. The Scooby Club yet beckoned; it beckoned to her as she, like so many people these days, have a closed mind to the tremendous possibilities inherent in responsible uses of re- creational chemicals; mostly, I used them to rise from the dead. The only other way I could do that was to get a real atomic blow job. And the bus really could've been Magic, but after calling from Orange Heaven (not to be confused with the Orange Entrail Museum), Jill found a ride for us to the hospital. Hospitals are not good places to drop drugz in. The room was dark and bloody and full of orange entrails. Not to mention all kinds of shit. The hallucinations were coming like a lunar rocket. The next day Dr. Day released me, on the same meds, meds which Carley had changed because he was too stubborn to, to ride the bus then. I made my way to Jill's conapt, where she wanted to sleep the afternoon away as she'd caught my throat infection from the daze before. To give her a chance to recuperate, I volunteered to go to the Electric Layout. Jesus said: Here I take my stand at the center of the cosmos. Jesus said: Become passers-by. Tra-la for the Mystery Cults! And did not this Amazon worship Artemis, the goddess of the hunt? It's hard to navigate around a Layout with a head full of demon mushrooms, so I asked to speak with her therapist, me Vonnie, a cute young thing who said my desire for marriage? you wanna? with someone who didn't smoke it (U-boat) was a matter entirely between the two of us, and we had to work it out for ourselves. When I returned to Jill's conapt, I mentioned that I'd talked to her therapist. Apparently she thought the marriage? you wanna? was a taboo subject, no matter that Jesus was on mushrooms when he walked upon the water. She forthwith ejected me from her domicile, screaming loudly as she walked me to the bus station. At that point, the relationship was pretty well over. Tournaments time, she told Rita Lynn to say hi to me for her, then, as Rita Lynn informed me, left with Phil, the Phat Phag. That evening, during the dance, she ran-ran away, leaving me to talk to some Jesus freak about his False Creator. I finally evaded him to follow her to the dance floor. Hurricane Gail and I dancing the cha-cha, she left with Phil, on the last dance. Jill, I know you're out there somewhere, and playing at love was another high. So maybe you're thinking of me, well I don't know, now do I? And maybe you're missing me--I shouldn't care, now should I? But, oh, if you knew how I feel: wish I could Dye, now don't I? And take 72 dyes and throw them in a vat and make them come out all white. END