Greetings Cyberians!

This is Eddie Raskell aka Demon No Thought aka Nobody in Particular welcoming you to the inagural issue of The Satyrist--the Web Page for those who seek the fiction beyond the thin veneer of reality. As editor, I ( in the relative, temporary sense) intend to challenge the reader with creative misinformation. Tired of intellectual and occupational monogamy? Then prepare yourself for a virtual orgy of creativity. Are you hypnotized by the hype and sedated by sleaze? Then drink deeply from the Latte of Enlightenment. For The Satyrist the Road to Reality begins with a long drive down the Freeway of Fantasy.

This month's features include:

Welcome to your Virtual Peer Group 

                                                   Satyrically,
                                                    D.N.T.
The Rumors are True! Now, exclusively in The Satyrist, free yet priceless advice from His Eminence Guru Lenny Ramakrishna. He's the Guru of Gab, the Avatar of Advice, a veritable New Age Newt Ginrich. This high energy, smash-mouthed Dharma Dude will radiate advice on any topic, providing his own unique perspective on the spiritually vacant times. Is your world painfully out of adjustment? Let Lenny be you own personal Consciousness Chiropractor.

Fascinating Plumbinghood: Call me an old-fashioned housewife if you will, but I would much rather cook than do household repairs. My husband seems to think that we need to share the burden of jobs like plumbing repairs. Isn't that wrong? I mean, aren't men supposed to do repairs jobs? Sincerely, JoEllen.
The Confidant Replies: There is no gender, no man, no woman, no one thin enough to reach through the firewall of a 1995 Taurus. Do what needs to be done with a full, attentive mind. What this world needs is a theme song for the post-gender role crowd. Helen Reddy, where are you? "I am human, here me roar, for eons after and before."

Of Kash & Karma: I recently inherited a large sum of money from a parent whose name I forget, and I find myself overwhelmed with investment options. My stockbroker, Sven, suggests that I buy several mid-1980's domestic sedans and invest the balance in limited partnerships. He says that by "churning" my account, he can generate a veritable truckload of income for me. Do you agree? Sincerely, Gene.
The Confidant Replies: A recent University study probed the personality traits of stockbrokers, as measured by the MMPI (Minnesota Mult-Phasic Personality Inventory). The lead researcher (himself recently bankrupt) concluded that brokers fit the "salesman" personality profile--meaning that, "they will do virtually anything non-felonious to make a buck." In your case, the only thing churning is Sven's karma, as he recycles himself back endlessly to the land of the hungry ghosts. You need to consult with someone who is motivated by love, not greed. How about Carl Sagan?

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Lust Hemingway: The "Lust Never Sleeps" Tour; December 17, 1995; The Slaughterhouse Cafe; Tacoma, WA.

After a failed attempt to ride the "unplugged" bandwagon, Lust has returned to his roots on his latest tour. With the veteran rocker performing three shows nightly, the aptly-named "Lust Never Sleeps" Tour has left many fans pondering The Virile One's physical and mental health. I recently attended a near sell-out performance at the Slaughterhouse Cafe to witness the latest incarnation of the man who single-handedly invented the crotch-rock genre.

I entered the cafe at 4:00 AM--just in time for the kick-off of the evening's third show. Lust, resplendent in his trademark leopard skin tights, hit the stage promptly at 5:15 RSST (Rock Star Standard Time). After several minutes of tuning, the band slowly worked into "I Left My Phallus in Dallas," from his new album Forward Thrust. This was the first of several mid-tempo rockers, surprisingly all written in 4/4, which revealed the Little Blonde Bantam's deep debt to The Hot New Sound Of Today's Young Country. Always the fashion trend-setter, an authentic coon skin hat adorned his bobbing head, clashing dramatically with the afore-mentioned leopard skin. Apparently noting the long lines at the rest rooms, the Godfather of Glam reached deep into the well of cliches and pulled up one of his most famous power ballads, "Thanks for the Mammaries." With a special dedication to Igor Stravinsky, he slithered seductively across the stage, while his back up band, the Ordinaires, proved once again that there is a fine line between dissonance and poor tuning. This gland-felt rendering wakened most of the audience, including several ancient war veterans who then vomited with a precision and dignity befitting their lofty status. Sensing the wave of energy rushing through the audience, the Shortest Man in Rock-n-Roll launched into his encore perennial, the reggae version of "Born to Run." Apparently, this moment of spontaneity confused His Rowdy Elegance, who bowed, wiggled, preened, and finally strutted off stage, never to return. The crowd--mostly middle-aged long haul truckers--quickly filed out, taking with them their "dates" for the evening. If this brief, yet highly intense evening was typical, the Stag In Drag will struggle mightily to retain the interest of the fickle concert-going public on this latest comeback tour.

Lust Hemingway

The Glitch is Back

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A Job for Jeanne Dixon:During the recent Christmas season, I was busy closing up my department--the pharmacy in a busy chain drug store. I felt exhausted yet lucky, because the rest of the store had extended hours to accommodate the throngs of Christmas shoppers. The gates were down, the lights were off, and I was counting the bounty in my cash register. A disheveled elderly gentleman with thick glasses, not one our regular customers, spied me working in the darkened area and called out: "Say, do you know where the shoe polish is?" Although not certain of the exact location, I did manage to direct him to the general area near the front of the store. I quickly finished my end-of-day tasks and commenced a quick exit before any more interruptions could occur. It was the middle of the cold, flu, and Christmas season and I was anxious to leave the craziness behind. As I zipped down the aisle, I passed by the same gentleman, who by now was engrossed in the fascinating world of shoe polish. Not desirous of any more shoe polish dialogue, I hunched, shriveled, and contorted myself, but nonetheless, he saw me: "Say, if you see my wife will you send her over here?" Evermore anxious to leave, I enthusiastically replied, "Sure!" I hurried away, chuckling to myself, and wondering three things: who was this mysterious shoe polish man, why had I been appointed his special messenger, and since I didn't know him, how could I possibly find his wife among the dozens of people shopping in our bustling store.

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