but his friends call him Shake

Dig the crazy 1950s photo. Name the writer.

11/28/06 --> We've received word that Turner Dupre has been let go from the Washington Post Oral, but has been picked up by the Embedded Duck Semi-Free Press. The note at the end of the excellent review of Shake's book "The Agents of Eczema" explains the particulars of the firing.

"my greatness will blind the cash registers of the rich!"

Shake, from his collection of essays, The Agents of Eczema. I was recovering from a fall down a flight of steps with a brand new television when Shake's first collection of essays was thrown through my front window by a bitter, half-blind cripple who lived next door. Fed up with getting my mail by mistake he wanted to make a statement. After beating him with his own cane, I sat down and opened Shake's book. The gravitational pull of the first few words nearly, and painfully, pulled my eyes from their sockets. Clearly, Shake is the mad, vengeful prophet-genius of our Time. These essays sear the skin of America the way aftershave sears a sunburned scrotum. The radiation crackles off these pages in alternating waves of poison and euphoria. In his essay, Hate Filled Burger King, Shake reveals that mind-controlled babysitters, sponsored by a rogue wing of the U.S military, are behind the ritualistic cattle multilations at local hamburger joints. Shake's prose is startling and carves a hole in the reader where he can see, maybe for the first time, how UFO death cults have infiltrated the highest levels of the government and control our lives. Shake points his trembling finger at the future and warns:

"...truncheon in hand! naked grandmother! i have warned you, america, they are coming for you!"

Reading The Agents of Eczema will overturn the furniture of your mind and tell you where to look for listening devices. It will show you just how high the garbage on Long Island has grown. It will reveal how the pock-marked buttocks of my housekeeper, Beva, is in reality a satanic document outlining the overthrow of America and the eventual herding of millions of men, women, and children into vast manufacturing plants where they will be forced to churn out tiny meat sausages for their rulers. You might cough up blood after Shake's book, but you will enjoy the sanguine pleasures of homicides and bleeding disorders your sputum conjures. This is a great book. You will empty your diaper after reading it, you will drink heavily and alone, you will cry out in pain and in joy.

Turner Dupre, Embedded Duck Semi-Free Press

*note: Turner Dupre was recently fired by the Washington Post Oral for firing a handgun into a leftover loaf of moldy limburger cheese while on break at the Post's D.C. headquarters.

Dupre and Shake on a mind-bending, lengendary press junket to Tucson, Spring 2006.

10/8/06 --> This review of Shake's recent book has been recently published by Turner Dupre, of the Washington Post Oral:

"let them vomit in the shade of the fedex truck..."
Shake, from his novel, Optional Hamburger

Again, the madman of Fulton forces of us on a death march through america's suburbs at verbal gunpoint. I swear to christ, reading Shake is more addictive than huffing oven cleaner, and i should know, bitch. Normally when reviewing books i will take a break to fuck my Filipino housekeeper but Optional Hamburger rapes me instead. I cannot put this book down or focus on anything else. hell, when i rolled over on my wife's 18 inch dildo and ruptured my spleen i didn't even notice, because that's how good this book is. Shake's road journey with Albert Speer's nephew ponies up the "dead candy of America's brain dead hordes" by spitting on family values and urinating all over the place. Every now and then i like to get in a good fist-fight and get smashed in the face because i can then feel something. This book is like that, it smashes your weak, lazy face in, and leaves you vaguely attempting to answer the local cop's questions behind a pakistani 7-11 in Rockville.

"What the hell are you doin' back here?"
"Uh, i don't know, i guess i was..."
"Alright, that's enough peckerwood, hands behind your back."
"But, but, i, but, ouch..."

Ending up like this during and after Shakes's book is a real pleasure, a real journey into stupor and rage and food stained clothing at the hands of the authorities.

Shake is a major new talent and he comes to your house wearing a dental bib and burns the whole thing to the ground.

Turner Dupre, Washington Post Oral

It's the official Shake xxxmasss card, godammit!

SRL at c7's Lee St. place, Tucson, ca. 10/95.

We've put a few of the mysterious Shake's emails up, using the email subjects as titles. Womco scientists believe the elusive east coast dj's thoughts may relate to more than just beer and turntables, revealing a considerably complex imagery pattern regarding mostly fishing tackle, oak trees and bathroom tile selection. And furthermore, all words on this page copyright 2004 SRL. --editor

Night of the Onion

Attention All Hummer Owners:

We At General Motors Would Like To Say...

WE'RE LAUGHING OUR ASSES OFF AT YOU!

enjoying that eight miles to the gallon "feel"?

why don't you just burn money in the front yard?

And from our dear friends at Mobil Oil,

a question:

Isn't NOW the time for that cross-country

Summer Hummer trip?

Re: I rode a bus to the monkey forest unfortunate Tourettes episode at the funeral. you cannot run faster than a bullet # Knowledge, wisdom, knowledge # Boomboom, boomboom, boomboom I destroy the drawers of the brain the sudden burst of an infernal propeller into economic lilies.... radiant true heart fight for and against thought the theories of the philosophers fell down the stairs stepped over them on my way to a beer. Bowling Green sewing machine long gone kentucky Monkeys Wept At My Funeral and yes, the platter of guts in the street 19 year old warrior the bald Hibiscus of death and the knocked over chess pieces the muffled graduate fart and the torn postcard that was ruined in the rain and of course the rusted windowless haunted dark shell of a car on a farm that used to hold lives together on asphalt an old magazine that meant the world in a youngster's mailbox stuffed in a barn where no more animals live and the hospital of importance catered to by the police saviors of destiny. She Lay on a Bed Near a Window "turn that fuckin' tv off" i said standing in the bedroom, by the door i looked out the window and the breeze blew the grass so fast that i thought i was seeing a hallucination or a vision the grass whipped back and forth and seemed to be alive willing to jump up out of the ground and dance "no" she said "i'm sick and i wanta watch tv." she lay in bed rumpled and off white "shit'll rot ya' up!" i said she kept staring at the tv and i went back down the steps into the kitchen and stood with my palms flat on the the counter top and i looked at my fingers and i knew we didn't have much money and i felt some thing in my throat and in my mind and i knew she was sad and i knew that if things got much worse i might make a bed like that for myself Paranoia The term Paranoia was first used by Austrian Dr. Helm Lipp in 1866. Lipp, who was positive that his pet budgie was stealing from his bank account, based many of his own theories on his own precarious mental state. Lipp realized that purposeless, seemingingly random events, connected only in the mind of the Paranoia sufferer, were the hallmark of Paranoia. In 1881, after a long period of illness and depression, Lipp donated his left arm to science and never spoke again, although he did communicate with the post man through blinking. His grandnephew, Thohn Lipp, was the first U.S. Army messenger to roller skate through the halls of The Pentagon.

3/2/04--Click here for special message from da'Man- "THIS IS NOT SPAM," he says.

RED TEMPLE PRAYER II Christian belief system on a faded noodle bus Bowling With Jesus fudge and promises you look bad in a dress sorry doesn't mean pills later go buy yourself a hate sandwich with revenge pickles mustard is a true love of mine! I'm in love with our precious media! They talk so sweet to me They facilitate access to my media-credita -oblongata Homer Simpson weeps for the dead I, AM Music! I AM MUSIC AND I WRITE THE SONGS! OH YES, HOW I WRITE THEM! I WRITE THOSE SONGS YESSIREE! I DO INDEED WRITE THEM THEY ARE MUSIC AND I WROTE THEM! BECAUSE I AM MUSIC! DOES ANYBODY FUCKING HEAR ME OR GIVE A GREEN GOD'S SHIT!? I AM MOTHERFUCKING MUSIC MOTERFUCKERS! AND I WRITE THE WHORE- ASSED BITCH ASS MUNCHING GODDAMNED SONGS FOR CHRISSAKES! In Dreams: Apricots! IN this place where I made all the great mistakes momentous things may occur not seen in any new Hollywood flick dreams of spaceships and haunted childhood neighborhoods and out of reach anger licensed to thrill but don't go out much dreams of her and her and even her than the end of the world or hanging onto a cliff or at the top of a tall building going down but not on her never again Wounds my heart with a monotonous langour this Babylon falls eating breath mints in the rain spastic dance of the media puppet catch phrase war torn "Jenkins! flag stickers for ALL body bags!" "yessir!" they paid me cash to protest and we got pizza in jail "make it look good kids" putting the finishing touches on the new plague fat lady gamblers on a red eye train Downtown Dave hung himself with a garden hose but left it on he feet were soaked as his neck cracked Plymouth Furey: Private Investigator The days passed by like heavy traffic in a bad neighborhood, and brother I knew, I'd seen a lot of both. As I walked down the dark, dank alley towards my low-rent office, I felt the night clinging to the cold brick building walls like a wet rabid cat on the back of a fleeing Doberman. I had that cheesy, itchy feeling that something was up-maybe the fact that I hadn't showered in two days had something to do with it. I stopped, looked over my shoulder, lit a cig and walked on. My worn heels echoed on the concrete like rocks falling down an abandoned well. I've been told that Baltimore used to be an ugly city, I saw tangible proof that parts of it still were. A rat the size of a groundhog scurried behind an overstuffed trashcan. I flicked a butt in its general direction and walked in to the tall, quasi-art deco brownstone where I kept my office. I didn't usually visit my office that late, but I didn't usually forget to take my rotgut with me either, and besides; I'd left the window open. As usual the stairs were filthy with grime, and dammit, I had just waxed my wingtips. As I climbed the five flights I loosened my tie and wondered how I'd ever gotten into such a state of affairs. See, I had once heard that private detectives slept well at night. That they had so much dirt on other people that it let them wink right off into that thing they call sleep. Me, I guess I was an exception, because I was on a first name basis with every crack in my hotel room ceiling. But hell, that was yesterdays news blowing down the boulevard. Finally, I reached the tired brown door to my office, the one with the frosted white glass that stated my name and occupation. I turned the key in the tin plated doorknob-Christ, why bother, you could open that lock with a toothpick. It was unlocked! I sensed almost immediately that I had company, and this time it wasn't just mice. I flicked on the lights. "Hey, they still work!" I thought with surprise. I was a little behind on the bill. She was sitting in the ugly, green overstuffed chair, facing my desk. Staring straight ahead, looking like a beautiful little girl, awaiting the news of some glorious, yet tragic event. A dusty light bulb hung from a tangled cord, unshielded, dangling over her head. "How did you get in here?" I demanded (God I was so quick with words). "I used a toothpick to pick the lock," she shyly responded. I couldn't help but notice she was a looker. A classy, sharp, pretty face, dark eyes, long auburn hair-neatly tied back, a charcoal jacket and skirt, white blouse, soft red lipstick, and sheer stocking legs that would've stopped Hitler's army outside Warsaw. "There are laws against breaking and entering," I said coolly, as I walked towards my desk and then tripped over an empty box that once contained legal size envelopes. I did a quick dance as I careened into my filing cabinet. "I only broke a toothpick," she said, as I stood up and righted the cabinet. She was quick, I liked that. "Are you a drinker?" I inquired, squinting and trying to look cool at the same time. "Did you forget your glasses Mr. Furey?" she asked. I poured myself a drink. Suddenly, and very loudly, the phone rang, like an act of God. A teenager's voice was on the line, "Uh, I'm looking for some Plymouth parts and uh." "Lookit, slim jim," I cut him off, the name's F-U-R-E-Y, Private Investigator!" I let the ensuing silence tell the punk the rest of the story, as I dropped the phone into the large metal, empty, bottom desk drawer; like an unwanted pair of old shoes, into an hollow Dumpster. I lit a cig. "I need help," she said. "That's my job" I responded. She had beautiful brown eyes that pierced my brain and flashed movies of the good life on my mind. God, I was a sucker. "It's my husband," she told me, absently fingering her gold wedding band. "He's." She began to cry. It was the kind of weeping that took practice, like driving a hearse. I reached out and offered my handkerchief, but like most things I offered, it went unnoticed. She calmed herself. "I think I know where he's been," she said softly. Off in the distance, through the open window, I could hear a dog barking. "Where?" I asked- this was my job. "Can you go there for me?" she asked in earnest. "I don't know, money talks.uh." "Bullshit walks," she added. "Yes, that's it" I said. She carefully laid down a pile of U.S. Grants onto the top of my desk. "That'll do for starts," I said, as I thought gleefully about getting a used car, and finding a better hotel. "I believe that you'll find him in a sport's bar, C. J. Fooldoons, about three blocks from here. He's got some kind of sports addiction or something." From deep within my desk the phone suddenly rang, like a long distance call from a dead relative in Iowa. I ignored it- but I resented its potential. I was sick of calls for auto parts. If my father was still kicking we might talk it over- my name that is. But if's and but's are like chasing taxis in rush hour. And besides, tombstones don't talk. I poured myself another shot. "Wanna hit?" I asked her. "What?" she distractedly responded. "Nothin'" I said. "All right, I'll find him" I told her. "I'll find him, and then what? Crowbar massage? Nose job? Sorry, I don't pull the rough stuff. I'm a peaceful man," I said, and with that I kicked back, my feet almost coming to a rest on my desk blotter as I recoiled backwards over into a large, dead potted plant. "I don't want violence," she said over my prone form. "Just tell him, tell him that I hired you, that I'm worried and I want him home." She then abruptly stood up, as if something dirty had fallen into her lap. "Losin' don't cost much" I said as I stood up, dusting myself off. "You sure you want him back?" She looked down at the floor as if the answers were written on it. If they were, it was too dirty to read them. "Yes, I do want him back" she said. There was a certain tone of finality in her voice- and a certain stack of fifties on my desk. I had a job to do. "So he's there now ma'am?" I questioned. "I believe so," she said wearily. "His name is Adrian, Adrian Largo." She produced a tired, color snapshot of him from her purse and handed it to me. She had beautiful hands, like small sculptures that extended from her sleeves. He however, had the usual early thirties white male look: toothy grin, trendy ring beard and a beach-weekend tan. God sometimes love was ugly- like a painted rock doorstop. "I'll do what I can Mrs. Largo" I told her, grasping her upper arm in my outstretched hand. "Thank you, Mr. Furey. Thank you very much. My phone number's on the back of the photo," she replied. She turned slowly, hesitated, and then walked quickly out of the office. Her former presence was like a ghost of class haunting the dime store dust of my barren, gray room. From within the desk the phone rang again. I ignored it and opened another drawer and took out a small bottle of green cough medicine. I took a swig, put it back and then lit a cig. "I, have a job to do," I thought, as the phone continued ringing like an empty phone booth in the Taj Mahal. I locked up my office and walked the map a few blocks up to the sports bar. I slid in the front door like a lizard with a cause. It was not my kind of place. No class, no charm, neon and stucco. Don't get me wrong, I like sports as much as the next guy, but I didn't like the flat brain wave types who inhabit these dungeons of machismo. The bar was padded brassy and fat. I hated that. Television monitors were everywhere. Typically, the place was packed. The bartender was a glandular case who looked as if he had seen one sports "event" too many. I didn't look around too much- eye contact made me nervous. I lit a cig and walked back out into the foyer to the pay phone. I'll go cellular when Jesus does, I thought to myself. I called information and then called the bar. "Hello C.J.'s," growled the steroid-fueled voice. "Could you please page Adrian Largo, it's a dire emergency," I asked. "Hold on, please." Commotion ensued and then I was suddenly voice to voice with one Adrian Largo. "Yo, Adrian my man! This is (my hand on the phone) mumble, mumble, I got that bet money I owe you! I'll meet you by the pool table in the back room in five minutes! See ya!" God what a cheese. I lit up a butt and strolled outside. I fired it up into the air with an expert flick of the finger, pretending it was launch time at the Cape. I walked back in to C.J.'s house of intellect, feeling like a Christmas song in July. There he was, in the back room near the pool table. Looking like a teenager whose prom date had been in the bathroom too long. He stared at a TV monitor as a Hockey fight raged. He wore expensive clothes, was good looking (In a mail-order fashion catalog sense), and had a demeanor that seemed to say, "I don't do favors." I cautiously walked over and then quickly went eyeball to eyeball (I had a job to do). "Your wife sent me, my name's Furey" I said, flashing him my weathered State Of Maryland Private Investigators license (which had expired three months earlier). His face changed directions like it was ready to refuse magazine subscriptions over the phone. "Fuck you, pal!" he spat. "Lookit, sports boy, we need to talk," I told him in my best stern voice. I flashed open my JC Penny suit to give him a glance at my holstered Mr. Smith & Wesson (but, hell, I went unloaded). "What can I do for you, sir?" he responded. My guess was that he was in sales. "Your wife sent me to tell you that she loves you and she wants you to come home. That's all." He looked around to see if anyone else knew how stupid I suddenly was. "Christ, not again!" he said. "She's just a neurotic, that's all! A neurotic bitch with some weird, romantic idea of love. Like something in an old fucking movie she saw." He said the word love as if it were a foreign language- to him I believe it was. All I could do was look at him, and he was looking at me as if I had just delivered a pizza to his Mother's funeral. I don't have many words for the unwise: "Grow a real beard," I told him. "And get some training wheels for your life!" I departed, expertly flicking an unlit butt in his general direction. Outside the night was cool and good, like a preview of fall in the late summer. I walked slowly back to my office, I'd left the lights on again and I could not afford such extravagance. My wing tips cursed the climb as I struggled to remember the last time the elevator worked. The lights in my office were off. I opened the unlocked door and immediately sensed that once again, I was not alone. I flicked on the lights like some small town chump summoning the check in an expensive French restaurant. She was sitting, rigid, in the chair in front of my desk, staring straight ahead. But this time her face read like the worn out inscription on an old Civil War statue. All was quiet. I stood behind her, my hands in my pockets. "Was he there?" she asked. "Yes, he was," I answered, surprised at the kindness in my voice. "He's still there," I added. She turned and I avoided her glance. "What did he say?" she asked. I thought hard, but my mind seemed to be downtown at the street corner, waiting for the light to change. "He didn't say nothin' ma'am," I finally said. She looked down at her feet, and looking down, I knew she'd look up again. I seated myself, lit a cig and poured myself a drink. "Would you like a drink?" The words wandered out of my mouth like children unexpectantly leaving early from school. "Yes" she said, "I'd like that very much." Suddenly the lights went out. "Damn utilities" I thought. A moment later, with explosive abruptness, the local freight train stormed by, offering through the windows a surreal collection of lights and colors that flashed on the wall behind my desk, and on the large, grimy, framed portrait of Richard Nixon that hung at its center. The train faded into the night, leaving us in silent, near darkness. What little light there was, shone in her eyes as she watched me pour her drink. From deep within my desk the phone suddenly rang, but I kept on looking straight ahead at her, and we both pretended not to notice as I reached into the drawer and took it off the hook. leftover couch smoke I staggered thru the mall unkempt wearing a too small overcoat in July I drank at random from a pint of cheap vodka my pants were four inches too high and my socks did not match I felt real good All the people looked the same like animated mannequins shopping off themselves it was far too bright to understand anything I was standing in front of some storefront display it looked pretty dandy and lit up when I heard "Excuse me sir!" "Excuse me sir!" "Yeah?" I asked "Are you shopping or loitering sir?" It was a young black guy in a blue uniform with a cell phone and a truncheon on his belt His name tag said "Charles" "And as well, we do not allow alcohol in the walkways of the mall." "I want to try on some gloves" I said He stared at me "At Sears" I said He stared at me and said "Put the bottle away. Sears is on level One." "Thank you" I said. I wandered off to the glass elevator took it down with an overweight Hispanic couple with three fat kids they all stared straight ahead and before we reached the floor I vomited hard and unexpectedly in the corner of the elevator snot and discharge hanging from my mouth and nose They rushed out as the doors opened "No gloves tonight" I thought as I walked towards what might have been an exit When The Truth Is Found To Be Lies You are eating a shrimp sandwich on a bike the wind is blowing and I am driving jazz Sonny Sharrock Sonny Stitt Sonny Rollins Doomed culture