dub as foreign substance/the whitest advice column in the world

headphones dub music and as i try to nod along a thicket of knots in my shoulders prevents the slightest rhythmic movement. it's like as if a layer of muting cotton balls has stuffed itself between muscle and joint.

i'm awfully white. i say this more as simple fact than as an emblem of self hate or ridiculous and racist pride. there are things that come naturally to me it's true (e.g. abstraction, retreating into a cloud, the subjugation of women or those less fortunate) but i don't completely hate myself, or at least not because i'm white. damn it though, i want this music to get through.

turn the lava lamp back on. groovy, sad fuck of a man. when i get this caustic and useless i should write the advice column that hastens me to hell, the kind where i ruin people's lives. pure poison.

Dear Creepy Curmudgeon --

My mother and I are really close. I am 13. There is only one problem. She doesn’t know I go out with boys. She is always telling her friends that I am different and not interested in that sort of thing. I want to know if I should tell her. The one other time I lied to her she cried because I kept a secret from her. I need help.

--Confused

Dear Confused Waste--

It is likely that you will soon die of an obscure VD, you lying waste. Tell that crow mother of yours that I stole her shit. Take care.

--Creepy

Dear Creepy Curmudgeon--

I am planning to marry the man of my dreams this coming September. Although his parents are wonderful, I'm a bit concerned about the role that they still play in his life...particularly his mother. She still does my fiancé's laundry, cooks his lunches daily, and cleans his house. What do you think?

--Hesitant

Dear Horny Freak--

We all get cold feet, but to insinuate that your fiance's mother is interested in moving in on your marital bed is to project your own perverse unconscious desires onto the motivations of a thoughtful family. Incest is a near-universal taboo and you should be ashamed of yourself for even picturing your mother-in-law to be in such a compromised position, care gone to the wind, love in her eyes and the sound of her breathing, her pulse erratic, her hair adrift on the pillow. It's time to cut this man loose, admit you have a problem and either hurl yourself off a gorge or take up a relaxing hobby, such as building model cars. Take care of yourself, kiddo.

--Creepy

Dear Creepy Curmudgeon--

I am a 41-year-old recovering addict with eight years of sobriety. I have not been in a loving relationship for over 10 years. Truthfully, I am scared to death of actually finding a mate.

Everyday I rush home after work, hide away until the next morning, and repeat. Initially in my sobriety, the solitude was fine. Now I am so lonely I could puke myself to death. I know I could meet women, but I don't know where to start. I am intelligent, attractive, and so confused. I just want to feel again. I want a new life, this one went off track somewhere in the 1980s.

--Down and Alone

Dear Downer --

Let's face it, love is elusive. When you're down and out, running from north to south, what more can you do? When I'm horny and lonely (which is often) I like to go to a bar and get a little loose. One thing leads to another until at some point in the night something "clicks" and I usually wake up the next morning in a different room than where I began the day. Sometimes another person is next to me and typically they are alive. Jesus loves you, kiddo. Get screwed up out of your head and the sex will follow.

--Creepy

a) five reasons for writer's block (50 words or less); b) penthouse forum interrupted

Because it's all been said. Because what the fuck does one person's perspective matter at this point? Because Anais Nin's diaries would have been sickening if written by a paunchy, middle-aged man. Because I had a bad day at work. Because finishing something means admitting it can’t be perfect.

Zoe and I have an average sex life. We've been married for 11 years. We've made love a few times, but nothing comes close to the letters I've read in your magazine. Zoe has a nice body and keeps herself in good shape. She's very attractive and a lot of fun, but she can also be prudish. It's this prudish side that makes what you're about to read so hard to believe.

We own a boat, and we enjoy cruising and fishing from time to time. Usually when we are away from shore and alone, Zoe will take off her top to get an all-over tan. Unfortunately for me, every time I make a move toward her, she stabs me in the eye with a red-hot poker that she has kept simmering by her deck chair.

Every summer there is an air show along our lakefront, and this time Zoe wanted to invite her best friend Amanda and Amanda's boyfriend to watch from our boat. I told her that would be fine by me, and thought nothing more about it. My good eye twitched, a little. Sometimes that means a storm is coming.

The day before the outing, Amanda called and said her boyfriend couldn't make it. Zoe said good, it's done then, and that she should come alone.

We met her at the harbor the next morning. Zoe wore a baggy pair of busted old sweat pants and a cotton tank top with a completely opaque black sweatshirt underneath that totally obscured her form. Amanda had a cutlass which she would occasionally jab threateningly toward my good eye. Ever since I met Amanda, I've given her a wide berth. She has great dexterity and knows how to flaunt it in all the right ways. She always kicks the shit out of me and tells my wife that sometime they should kill me and dump the body in the creek behind our apartment complex.


By the time we left the harbor, the girls had had two glasses of wine and were kicking what appeared to be a severed head amiably down the deck of the boat. It took the better part of an hour to get to the air show. There was a large gaggle of pleasure craft, and it was hard to find a spot to anchor. We decided to drift to the outside of the flotilla to try to anchor there. I finally got the hook to grab where we could see the show, about 100 yards outside the main pack.

Once we were secure, Amanda asked where she could change into her bathing suit. I told her she could use the cuddy cabin once I was done stowing the bags and coolers. My wife said that would take too long, and there was no room because of all the gear. Amanda asked what she should do. With that, Zoe stabbed my remaining good eye with the poker.

I am unclear on what happened next. I only know that I awoke in what felt to be the trunk of a moving car. I write this letter to you, Penthouse Forum, in the hope that you can assist me in some form. Please be swift and strong. Please spare this man's life. You are my last hope. --Name and address withheld

late Picasso

At opposite ends of a hall with high wood beamed ceilings are doors. A door of light and a door of dark. Inside the dark room you can't see anything, not even the light from the hall. When your eyes adjust you see blurred shapes on a blurred platform.

In the light room are 20 or so men in 17th-century costume trying out for a TV commercial. The coveted role is Rembrandt, the narrator; the commercial is for a device that's one part bong and one part phallus, called The Dildabong.

The role of Rembrandt calls for the actor to dress as a musketeer, who should wield The Dildabong as a vanquishing sword. For beginners the suggested order is bong, dildo. Mixed mode is recommended only for advanced users craving a more membranous high. The order of the name suggests a yet more challenging application, the possible result of a perilous quest for enlightenment.

In the dark room when your eyes adjust you see lovers on a soft brown bed. Their bodies exhibit abnormal plasticity, as if their genes have scrambled and an arm can have eyes and legs grow sensibly from necks. The constraints of matter became matters of trivia when the lines foreshortened and blurred in the fading light.

Picasso's final performance was in Indianapolis at the Market Square Arena on June 26, 1977. According to many from his entourage, it was the "best show he had given in a long time," with "some strong singing."