Dear Wigleaf,

We miss you like a jackpot, even your flat-breast jokes, dry as a lecture on Drosophila genetics without touching upon neomorph mutations. You were always a leopard in drag. The old East Village gang sends you its motley love: Rin-Rin, Tora, Lindy Heat, Eddie Coops, the bass player from Your Uncle Is Trash, Joey Rino, the Mott Street Mock Ups, Serge Gillespie, Sacred Dew, Foul or Fang, Brent Lintner, the ex-clown you dated who did some weird shit on drums, etc. Speaking for myself, I can say that without your South Street humor, the way you’d take risks, in black leather and Goth or that Tee shirt that read: Band of Fuck-Ups, some Holly Go Lightly thrown in after a botched break-in to free some crusty punks from anti-squatters, or the time you smuggled clams from the sushi place on St. Marks just so we could slime-love ourselves all over again, or how we’d get drunk and stick our heads in the washing machines and scream Primal or like the Rolling Stones once sang when they were still Rolling and possibly stoned—We Love You. Without you, I'm as lonely as a funnel-web spider that hasn’t been notified of its classification. Thinking about you... well. . . it gives me crabs. And I still don't give a fuck about your retarded ex-boyfriend who lives in fatigues and who got booted out of Banana Republic for trying to steal some antlers. I'd rather stalk you.


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Read KH's "The Brando Method Thing #3: Sal Mineo on Watching Brando at the Actors Theater."

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