Editorial Introduction to Issue #3

Since the tragic death of Britney Spears exactly one week ago, I have been held up in my apartment day and night, sleepless, barely able to suppress my laughter and concern. I've since decided to forgo my favorite beverage, the mystic Recliner, and consume bottles of José Cuervo Gold between my useless, incessant rambles in my scrap notebook. Eleven! ELEVEN pens have run dry! -- And what do I have to show for it all, I ask you, my fellow shackled ones, what do I have to show?

my muse is gone

The disciples grow restless. They breathe down my neck for yet another prophetic orgasm to herald the latest vision, my own mantra, Blurb. She haunts me as well, always pushing me to her own clandestine ends, but I am spent. The last few days of agony have been bloodshot and painful. My blood stopped clotting last night. Any bruise could suddenly become fatal. I am an artist. I am becoming.

My bitch-goddess muse has left me, perhaps for the same byzantine land where my wife is secreting herself. My search last summer led to yet another mysterious clue, which naturally gave no hint of her whereabouts. The ovum found frozen in Tulsa Baskin-Robins was undeniably hers, but my investigator could not discover how or why it was extracted from her or for what nefarious purpose it will serve - perhaps the government will use it to clone its new super soldier.

The X-Files only serves to deepen my growing paranoia - but why her precious eggs?

Sault Ste. Marie. How long have I dwelt here? My responsibilities to this rag keep my feet firmly planted in this vermillion hell of guns, pickup trucks and "huntin'". It seems as though I have spent a lifetime in this burg of perpetual fog, sleet and rain. I had to venture outside four nights ago to acquire more bottles of José Cuervo Gold, finding myself among a plentiful myriad of beer stomachs and flannel jackets, while the stench of Blake's infamous "youthful Harlot's curse" hung heavy in the dense air about me. I lost my only handkerchief last year, tragically…

I feel the tugs of a fitful sleep upon me. Perhaps now I may rest, and perhaps my muse will return; I don't know how I will survive being abandoned yet again.

Blurb. Volume Three. Dissect, devour, consume me.



B. Albert Fellone