Afterword

In conclusion, whatever. One is always left with questions when faced with that tragicomic blank remainder on the last page of a book, and so it might be the idea behind a note like this to articulate or even begin to answer at least one of those questions. The bellies and coke motif, for example. But why bother? After Eli's phlegmatic gem or Mary's handshakes with Doom, there seems to be enough love and oblivion implicit to fill a hundred anthologies with empty space. But were not selling diaries; we're selling amongst other things , every manifestation of smut, vice, beauty, and wierdness that Jack Daniels has helped us put into words.

And what is evoked in such a crab nebula of neurosis and fucking? Do we see something interstellar, something stranded in the desert, something careening down Kings Highway at three in the morning in a Mercades M-Class, leftover conquistadors? Or do we rather see spots?

Peter Milne
Novermber 2005, Brooklyn NY