Three days a week, she gets up early, a kiss to a small forehead, a quick wash and a brown-bag lunch. But now, Neela faces a problem. Rajit saws logs, and she slips into her clothes. She keeps the room dark, wishing the poor fellow sleep, as long as the children will allow. Hammering roofing nails from dawn till dusk can’t be easy, but he will not complain.
The money she brings from preparing the Parker’s meals isn’t much, but it gives them breathing room. She likes the work, and the Parkers love her cooking. Mister swears her bhindi gosht and tikka boti are tops. Recipes passed from mother to daughter. And their kitchen has never been so spotless, this confessed from Mrs. Parker’s own lips.
The wait for the 514 bus is long today, but the rain isn’t too bad. Neela uses the time to think about the Parkers’ problem – a dark cloud that formed on the horizon a week ago and spread like cancer. Missus confided it began in the bedroom, unfortunately not in their own. The shirt she found in the laundry basket was his alright, but the lipstick trace wasn’t Pink Pout, the only shade to cross her lips since saying her wedding vows.
Arriving at the Parkers’ residence, Neela senses last night’s angry words. Her day starts with a dustpan; she sweeps up the remnants of the unbliss, remembering her grandmother’s words: a pinch of cassia bark mixed with cayenne pepper makes a hair-trigger aphrodisiac, one sure to return a tumultuous marriage to its happy state.
Mister leaves without a word to play eighteen holes, and Missus sits and stares at Divorce Court on the TV. The volume goes up, and the level in the sherry bottle goes down.
Towards five, Neela has adjusted her spices, enough cayenne and cassia bark to bring down a moose. She hears the clomp of Mister’s shoes on the parquet as he returns and heads straight for the scotch.
While dinner simmers, Neela reads the classified section. Three ads for personal chefs. If the cassia and cayenne fail, she’ll be on the breadline as the expression goes.
Backing through the swinging door with the chicken tikka with eggplant, she is struck by the air of unrest. There will be no mmm tonight. Mister’s fists clench cutlery: fork in one, knife in the other like a child who hasn’t discovered the use of individual fingers. Bloodshot eyes burn into his wife across the table. She ignores him and watches the afternoon installment of Divorce Court playing on the living room TV.
“Goddamn it, woman, you did the pool man.” He punctuates this with a gulp of scotch.
A hint of a smile crosses her lips. Neela wishes to signal her, to warn her of Mister’s dangerous mood.
On the screen, Judge Mablean McBeam has choice words for a defendant, prime-time-airing bleeping out half of
them. Mrs. Parker says, “Good on you, judge,” and swigs her wine, both cheeks squirrel out as she swallows.
Neela notes the small aerosol can next to her dessert fork. Mister’s knuckles turn as red as his balding head. Neela is sure he is growling, staring at his bride with those peril eyes.
She backs through the kitchen door. There will be mango supreme tonight. She watches through the crack in the door.
“I’m not done with that son of a bitch,” Mister says.
Missus shrugs and quaffs the wine in her glass.
“Gonna fix his ass.”
Missus over-salts her food, refills her glass and returns her attention to the TV.
“You hear me?”
“Shh.”
“Gonna carve him a new one.”
“Nice, dear.”
Judge Mableen pounds her gavel, same time Mister pounds his fist. Plates, cutlery and salt and pepper dance.
“You hear me? I’m going to carve him a new one.”
“Everybody needs a hobby, dear,” Missus shakes more salt on her food.
“Nobody sticks his nose in Cam Parker’s business and gets away with it.”
“It wasn’t his nose, dear heart.”
Mister drops his cutlery and yanks the TV cord from the wall, stopping Judge Mableen from announcing a commercial break.
“Stick it back in,” she tells him.
“There’s been enough of that, don’t you think? And to think I pay that bastard.”
“And he’s worth every penny.”
Mister lunges, his fist winding back. In spite of the wine, her timing is High-Noon perfect. The stream of mace hits his bulging eyes, dropping him like a stone. Screaming, he flails, fists balled in eye sockets. His legs thrash as Neela runs into the room. She must do something. 9-1-1. “Missus, please!”
Missus sets the can down, smiles at Neela, picks up her fork and tastes her chicken. “Very nice, indeed, Neela.”
Neela looks at her employer on the floor.
“Cayenne, am I right?” Missus takes another forkful, savoring the taste. “And something else.” She waves a finger at the air.
Neela nods. “Cassia bark.”
“Cassia bark? Yes. How exotic.”
Neela adds it’s like cinnamon; her eyes never leave poor Mister.
“Oh, you can take his plate, Neela. Mr. Parker won’t be joining us for dessert.”
Neela takes the plate and backs into the kitchen, hears Missus say, “I think it might be fun to do it on the TV, don’t you?”
He groans.
“The divorce, I mean,” she says. “I’ll email the judge’s people. It’ll be down and dirty, quick and easy.”
“You crazy bitch.”
“Oh, and Cam, Judge Mableen covers all legal costs. That ought to appeal to a cheap prick like yourself.”
He grabs for her ankle, screams as she blasts mace in his face. He rolls into the fireplace, upsetting the tool set.
Missus calls Neela back and says, “Think I’ll just skip dessert, too. Best to start counting calories. In fact, why don’t you call it a day. Go
home and spend some time with your lovely family. I’ll tidy up here.”
Neela nods and turns for the safety of the kitchen.
“Oh, and be a dear,” Missus says. “Plug the TV back in before you go.”
Dietrich Kalteis is a writer living in West Vancouver, Canada. His work has appeared in Foundling Review, Tryst, Verdad, One Cool Word and others. His screenplay MILKIN' DILLARD has been optioned to Bella Fe Films, Los Angeles.
Michael was frying the meat and onions in the schmaltz (chicken fat). The special schmaltz that was allowed to grow in power in the special container made from the rabbi’s beard and kilned in the fires of Gehenna, just outside Jerusalem. The “storying” of the schmaltz through Passovers both good and bad gave it power, the power to make the Kreploch (Jewish ravioli) of the Dead; the kreploch that is only whispered about in delis and never, ever, served in temple, the dreaded Necreploch.
The schmaltz splashed on his chest. He screamed and cursed. Easy Michael, easy. Lower the flame.
But then it would take longer to cook. He needed help. Now! He also needed a lot of Bactine for the burns. Your problems may be great, Michael. That is why you are making the Necreploch. But burning yourself to death with the schmaltz will not help. You are making the Necreploch to contact the dead. You don’t want to join them.
The Necreploch was cooked. The overly sweet kosher wine was poured into the family’s silver chalice, the one that had carved on it the Six Hundred Names of God. The chicken soup, the Manna base from which The Power will be raised, was poured into the good china bowl that had been carefully cleaned in the boiling Mount Sinai spring water. It was time to call forth the dead.
Michael picked up a Necreploch. He was about to place it in the soup. Like the splash that will rise from the soup, so will the soul rise from the dead.
But which soul? Which soul should he call? Mom? She would understand the issues, but would she answer him? Why should she talk to a schlep who never took life head on but instead hid, hid away forever in college, getting one degree after another, none of which he used?
Or Grandma? She had more magic, more knowledge. But in her day a Jew was a Jew. He didn’t mix with the goyim.
Well, he had mixed with the goyim. It was the mixture that was causing this all. Why does mixing ingredients
in a soup make it strong, but mixing different people into your life make you a chaser, a pig. an unclean pig rolling around in the Catholic filth? Mom it was, then.
He grabbed the Necreploch and dropped it in. “A klog tzu meineh sonim! (A curse on my enemies),” he said.
“A curse on your enemies?” said the wisp of steam that rose from the chicken soup. “As opposed to what? A curse on your family?”
“Mom, I’m sorry,” Michael said.
“So, you’re sorry are you? Do you know why I hung on as long as I did? Going through endless chemo and surgery?”
“Mom…”
“I wanted to finally see my son settle down into a productive life, a good life. The only thing he was good at was conning his way into scholarships to pay for his useless degrees:anthropology, English, philosophy...”
“I don’t have time for this…,”said Michael.
“No, you have time for magic,” said a second wisp of steam, “but you don’t have time to be a good son and listen to your mother.”
“Grandma?”said Michael. “What are you doing here? I didn’t even add your Necreploch to the Soup of Souls.”
“Oh, I came by my own power. I didn’t want to miss this,” she said.
“There is this girl…,” said Michael.
“And where did you meet her?” said the motherly wisp.
“At work.”
“’Work’ he calls it?” said Michael’s grandmother. “Your boy, the college man, the man with more degrees than I had skeins of yarn, what does he do when you die?”
“He took my money,” said the wisp that was once Michael’s mother.
“And opened a 711,” said the two wisps simultaneously.
“Look, I’m happy there.”
“Happy are you?” said Michael’s grandmother. “Then why are you calling up the dead?”
“I met this girl at the store…”
“And her problem is that she hangs out at the 711?” said his grandmother.
“She does not! She drives a delivery truck for Pepsi.”
“Oh, another college graduate,” said Michael’s mother. “And what is wrong with this dainty flower?”
“Well, her brothers don’t like her marrying me. They have threatened us. We think they are serious this time.”
“And her name is?” said Michael’s grandmother.
“Oy, gevalt. You know?” said Michael.
“Well, her brothers certainly aren’t Jewish. You may have wasted your education, but they would accept you because you make a nice living. So her name is?”
“Molly O’Brian,” Michael said.
“An Irish Catholic?” Said Michael’s grandmother. “The violence they did to your father and his friends…”
“We’re not in Brooklyn anymore, Grandmother,” said Michael.
“Where is Jerome anyway?” said Michael’s mother.
“Do you see any grilled flank steak?” asked Michael’s grandmother.
“No, I don’t,” said his mother.
“You would think that if this is about fighting, a boy should call his father,” said Michael’s grandmother.
“I didn’t call him up. He would say, well…‘Be a man’. Then the flank steak would fly off into the living room, turn on the Yankees’ game, and ignore me.”
“You always were a disappointment to him,” said Michael’s grandmother.
“Look, why don’t you to just talk to her? You’ll like her.” Michael pulled out his cell phone and dialed Molly’s number.
“Hello, Mrs. Shoenstien and Mrs. Shoenstien,” said Molly.
“The shiksa couldn’t meet us in person?” said Michael’s grandmother. “Such manners they teacher her in
church. Right Zelda? Zelda?”
“Mom?”said Michael.
“He never listened to me before,” said Michael’s mother. “I said pick a major, one you can make money at. He didn’t listen then. I don’t see why I should talk now.”
Michael put the phone to his ear. “How are you doing?” he said to Molly.
“About the same as you are. When I added the lamb to the Neamh Stew and told them about you, the lamb chunks screamed at me in Gaelic. I know ‘hello’, ‘goodbye’,and ‘where’s the bathroom?’ in that language and not
much else. So I gave up.”
“But what do we do? They are threatening us,” said Michael.
“Maybe we can reason with them?” said Molly.
“How?”said Michael. “If I soiled their little sister with my Kike cock they would kill me.”
“Yeah, but they are living. We might be able to change their minds,” Molly said.
“I know, you can’t do that with the dead. They just stew in their bitterness,” said Michael.
“We are not bitter,” said Michael’s mother and grandmother. “We just know better.”
“Look, let’s throw our relatives into the sink, go get some Chinese food, and talk,” said Molly.
“Sounds good,” said Michael.
“The sink? That’s where you think we belong?” said Michael’s mother. But she never finished her thought because the bowl went in the sink, the soup hit the drain, the Necreploch hit the stopper, and the spell ended.
Molly’s brothers had threatened to kill him, but he was still alive. Their love was certainly still alive and where there is life, there is hope.
Matthew Sideman is a former English Major living in Chicago, Illinois. Like all English Majors he has the job that he deserves, office temp. He has temped various jobs from working collections in a hospital to filing the kinky
card file in a phone sex parlor. He has had journalism published in The Chicago Reader and fiction in the journals Bust Down The Door And Eat All The Chickens and Dark Reveries.
I coaxed Pat into driving at dawn from New York City to Baltimore. I
just met her in a
bar. I told her about Doris, how she was strictly off limits sexually though
rape crossed
my mind. When I moved to Baltimore she was the first person I met just
when I needed a
place to get my bearings and put a roof over my head. I hated her big
lipstick mouth, her
fat, slovenly legs, her depression, her droopy hair, her big old-fashioned
skirts, her
lackadaisical southern drawl, her tripe about her ailing mother. I wanted
her to meet a
real woman, one who put lead in my pencil.
At Doris’s place, I told her we both were on uppers I found in Pat’s
glove compart-
ment. I didn’t explain why we made the impromptu visit. Dangling, not
having things
clearly spelled out, I knew that upset Doris. I chatted fast, telling Doris I
was pleased Pat
went home with me rather than the asshole with a nose-ring and wearing an ascot.
I told
her Pat had ripped her pantyhose so she bought another in a Big Top near Doris’s
place.
Doris was a social worker and I an interior decorator. Doris never shaved her
legs,
black hair looked like oddly shaped parasites under a scientist’s microscope.
Doris’s tiny,
humid apartment’s atmosphere had always been thick with cat dander moving
through
the air like death-dealing asbestos. I coughed, wheezed and sneezed, my nose
running.
The allergy shielded me against a counter-intuitive, booze-induced pass at her.
Doris’s attraction towards me was strong though I was completely unavailable.
Often I
saw lust sneak out from behind her sluggish eyes. Doris’s walls had haphazardly
hung
paintings of red cats floating through rural streets. She made a collage, my
photograph
ripped from a New York magazine, my face surrounded by cats, their red fur
jabbing
my photogenic skin, thin streams of crayon-blood dripped from a kindergartener-
like
drawing of a sprinkler: God awful.
I could have taken Pat to others I’d known in Baltimore but chose Doris.
The
upper was enough to arm my mind with a full-frontal verbal assault of trivia.
Doris
squirmed in her chair, that wide fanny of hers trying to negotiate her way through
the
spur of the moment visitation. Pat fondled me, suggesting a ménage a trois
was in order.
Doris’s face reddened, frozen in fear.
She asked me why I was in Baltimore. Just so Pat could buy new pantyhose, I
said.
That satisfied her, she numbly drinking eggnog. Pat said that was a fat person’s
drink, get
real, Doris. Doris’s eye twitched and began pulling at her skirt as Pat and I stared
at her
legs. Pat chatted about how smooth her own legs looked beneath the beige
pantyhose.
I asked Doris to make us a meal. She plodded to the kitchen, breaking eggs,
making
pancakes. I adored your feast, Doris, make some more, I said. She did, this time
coming
back with many pieces of toast, plus jam. I requested peanut butter, so she
thumped back
and put down a jar of Skippy’s. Pat told her only eat one pancake, save the rest
for us.
Doris said she’d be fired because her supervisor said she was too slow with
evaluation
write-ups. Pat told her she was a conceptual artist and couldn’t understand why
Doris
painted. So de trop, Pat said.
Doris turned on the TV, immobilized, eating salty pretzels from a bowl. Pat and I
made
love in Doris’s bedroom, we going at it on her stinky sheets. Afterwards, we s
lept. It was
dark when we woke. I turned some lights on and we walked naked past the TV to
the
kitchen, eating Doris’s chicken, pasta, veggies and ice cream. She watched a TV
newscast, paying little attention to us, though she did cast a quick glance at us
through
her large black-framed glasses.
I looked in Doris’s pocketbook and liberated four Jackson’s. Pat said, Look,
Doris,
then pulled down her pantyhose and mooned her.Doris stared, and stared some
more
when I gave her the fascist salute and said, Sieg heil. We laughed, then walked
out her
door before I slammed it shut.
George Sparling has appeared in many literary magazines including Zygote in my Coffee, Thieves Jargon, Istanbul Literary Review, Underground Voices, Unlikley Stories, nthposition, Rattle, Potomac Review, Word Riot, Slow Trains, Snake Nation Review, and Crack the
Spine. He has had many jobs including a Dungeness crab butcher on the
early morning drunken docks, bookstore clerk on Times Square, placer gold miner
in the northern California wilderness, dishwasher, and a long-ago New York City
caseworker in East Harlem. Currently, he lives in a college town in California.
He moved from the East Coast to California and got old.
After the god died, the temple fell into disrepair. The paths grew up and men went another way.
Time passed. Others took over what had become a ruin, a marble rib cage suspended above a sea that was never the same color twice. Pigeons carried on their lively commerce among the capitals, while snakes sunned themselves below. Every spring grey caterpillars swarmed up and down the pale columns.
Time passed. Now and then a goat picked its way through the thistles and suddenly recognized the changed ground it walked on. Lifting its head as so many of its tribe had done before, it saw those great marble limbs spread overhead and, scraping the leaves from the hard floor, tapped its hoof again and again in that dry silence.
Was there an answer? Was there ever an answer? Eventually the goat would make its way down the maze of overgrown pathways to rejoin its fellows, retaining for a little while a sense of something marvelous in that marble wreck.
Grove Koger is the author of a play, /Ruby Testifies/ (Black Box Theatre, Bloomington, 1990), and a survey of travel literature, /When the Going Was Good/ (Scarecrow Press, 2002). He works as a reference librarian at Albertsons Library, Boise State University, and is currently compiling a guide to sea fiction.
When Nick Pomeroy was 12 years old he lost his three-year old sister, Nina, at Woodfield Mall. Nick had wanted to stay home and play basketball with his friends, but his mom had insisted he come along to help her with Nina, as his father was unavailable – having conveniently scheduled a Saturday morning meeting with one of his tax clients. It was the week before Christmas and Nick was annoyed with Nina who wouldn’t stop singing that stupid song about the wheels on the bus as he pushed her stroller through the hordes of shoppers while his mom checked out the display windows, searching for the right gift for her sister.
After passing a number of acceptable stores, she stopped in front of the Victoria’s Secret display, which was occupied by three shapely mannequins
wearing Santa’s hats and skimpy underwear. “Come on, Nick, I want to check out those silk panties.”
Nick could feel his face coloring. “I’m not going in there.” The shop was packed with women and high school girls. “There’s no room for her stupid
stroller.”
His mom bit her lip as she stared into the crowded shop. “Okay, you stay here with Nina. Don’t let her out of your sight. I’ll just be a few minutes.”
After his mom disappeared into the store, Nina started to pound her feet on the stroller. She pointed across the way to the mechanical Santa in front of Radio Shack. “Santa, Nicky!”
“We have to stay here,” Nick said.
“Santa! Santa! Santa!”
Nick sighed. “Okay. Okay.” He wheeled over and parked Nina in front of Santa. In the Radio Shack display an employee was playing the videogame DOOM. Nick had never seen such a cool game. The player ran down dark, spooky hallways, shooting bad guys at every turn. Around and around and then, Kablam!
“Look, Nina, big boom.” Nick reached for the stroller, but it wasn’t there.
He never, of course, forgot that moment. His heart beating so hard it hurt. The cold, sick feeling in his stomach as he ran from store to store, calling
Nina’s name. And that look on his mom’s face when she ran out of the store.
They never found Nina. She vanished from the face of the earth and no one saw her leave. It was Nick’s fault. He understood that. The Pomeroys were not emotional people. His parents never yelled at him. Never said they blamed him. Never bothered to tell him they loved him anyway. Those things were understood.
The Pomeroys were practical people. They didn’t cling to false hopes. They waited a year and then one day when Nick came home from school, the pictures of Nina were gone from the living room wall and her room had been converted to a spare bedroom that no one ever used. Nick understood. Nina was gone and there was nothing else to do, but go on with their lives.
Nick went on to college at UCLA and fell in love with Donna Clement, a dark-eyed Italian girl who worked in the Student Union. They got married before his second year of law at USC and moved into an attic apartment in the Clement home. The Clements loved to argue and hug and play loud board games, which often ended with someone throwing something. Nick loved them very much. He never told Donna or her parents that he once had a sister named Nina.
Cassie was born two years after Nick graduated from USC Law. His parents wanted to come out and see her, but Nick put them off. Too hectic, with a new baby and the long hours at the law firm. His parents understood. They were practical people.
Donna’s gift for his 30th birthday was three airline tickets to Chicago. Nick looked at the tickets and shook his head. “It’s not a good time. Work…”
“Stop it, Nick. I haven’t seen your parents since the wedding. And Cassie needs to meet her other grandparents. No discussion, Mister.” She kissed him and Nick decided maybe it was time.
His parents had aged well. His father had retired early and, unbelievably, taken up gardening.Their front lawn, which had always been as antiseptically groomed and edged as a golf course, was now speckled with outbursts of mums and daisies and wildflowers. His mother, even more surprising, had acquired a piano and taken lessons. They were very happy to meet Cassie, and spoiled her even more than her other grandparents.
On the third day of their visit, his mom brought out Nick’s toy box, which was filled with his old Ninja turtle paraphernalia. She dressed Cassie in his
Donatello costume. As she rolled up the pants and sleeves, Nick’s heart twinged as he remembered doing that same thing for Nina. Cassie padded over to the toy box and discovered his Ninja trifold wallet. She pulled out a photo that had been pasted on red construction paper and framed with popsicle sticks.
“Who’s this, Nana?” She ran over to her grandmother. Nick watched as his mother studied the photo. Her lips trembled and her eyes filled with tears.
“That’s my little sister Nina,” Nick said. “She was the same age as you, honey.
Donna looked up from her magazine. “Your sister?”
“Where is she, Daddy? Can I play with her?”
Nick’s throat tightened. “I lost her. I was supposed to keep her safe and I…” The words choked him. He just stood in the middle of their living room aware of Cassie and his mother and Donna all staring at him. Waiting. “I lost her and—”
“No, Nicky, no,” his mom said softly. She walked over and hugged him. “It wasn’t your fault. You were just a boy. I’m so sorry, Nicky. So, so
sorry.”
She took Cassie by the hand and led her over to the piano. “Come here, darling. I want to teach you a song that my Nina used to love.”
Len Joy lives in Evanston, Illinois. Recent work has appeared in The Journal of Compressed Creative Arts, Johnny America, Specter Magazine, Washington Pastime, Hobart, 3 AM Magazine, Pindeldyboz, and The Daily Palette (Iowa Review). He has recently completed a novel, “American Jukebox,” about a minor league baseball player whose life unravels after he fails to make it to the major leagues.
On the sidewalk, Misty rescues the fallen white crane. Craddling it in her arms, she imagines that it fell from the top of the ten story crab restaurant, rumored to serve demons in the soup. A voice inside her keeps saying It's dead. Spend your time doing worthwhile things--like shopping for parasols or teddy bears, chokers with charms, opaque stockings thigh-high, your favorite top hat with satin ribbon under the chin. It's such a beautiful day.
But Misty takes the crane home, sings to it, sleeps next to it at night. She has a premonition. She starts reading to the crane her love letters to an ex-boyfriend, the one who could never love her. He claimed she was too grounded. Slowly, over days, the crane's eyes open. It struggles to get out of bed. Its features turn human--it morphs into the boy who could not love her. She dresses him, packs him a lunch. She says, Even though I still love you, I know it will be the same old story. You will never walk back to me.
He stares out her bedroom window then turns. No, he says, this time is different. This time I can't grow wings. She screams at him to wait. He crouches at the window and dives into the air. By the time he reaches the bottom, she has lifted her hands upwards and closed her eyes. She pictures the ceiling as glass and trap doors and whispers, imagines herself a crane, high in the sky, circling her only lover.
Kyle Hemmings was delivered by a stork and abandoned in New Jersey. His work has been published in Nano Fiction, Thunderclap Press, DeComp, Defenestration, Blast Furnace Review, Smokelong Quarterly and elsewhere. He still digs 60s garage bands like the Jujus and the McCoys. He claims Arthur Lee talks to him from the dead.
He was blind in some ways, prone to early morning fogs, susceptible to classic Trance and lock-down cyborg thought. Still, she loved rolling in his honey under the sheets, those times when he forgot he was made of cold metal--stuck him with all kinds of tweets about love. She knew it was one way. He hinted at how he was ruined by machines disguised as mothers and older sisters, that he couldn't get too close--he would only self-destruct. She tattooed a rabbit on his naked arm. He was muttering something about the fall of Tokyo and how he would be one more useless body of cogs and flat-headed screws under a heap of shorn instructions. She said she believed in rabbits and so should he. Sauntering to the closet, her body, a warm glow of gooseflesh in early sunlight, she said rabbits were a catalyst to forever. With schizoid glare, as if speaking to not-her, he stated that it was because they hide underground. She inspected his face as if searching for signs of her own life. She couldn't understand why she loved him, only that as a child, she slept with her broken dolls, her lips pressed against their hard blue eyes. He disappeared. Months later, after the earthquake, she sat at the Vanity Lounge in Roppongi on Halloween night, talking to a girlfriend dressed as a furry animal, one with big warm eyes. She said a rabbit had died. The girlfriend's hands smelled of apples. She still wanted honey.
Kyle Hemmings was delivered by a stork and abandoned in New Jersey. His work has been published in Nano Fiction, Thunderclap Press, DeComp, Defenestration, Blast Furnace Review, Smokelong Quarterly and elsewhere. He still digs 60s garage bands like the Jujus and the McCoys. He claims Arthur Lee talks to him from the dead.
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