The Lunatics have Taken over the Asylum
by the Editor
The last couple of years, EAP has stayed on a relatively even keel. Fairly sane stuff, fairly standard, a little out there now and then, but no more than you would expect any middle class aspirant lifestyle choice online literary magazine to reach. But suddenly things have taken a turn for the weird.
First off, there's Hunt N. Peck . EAP's favorite teller of seafaring tales disappeared for a couple of months, having embarked–according to messages arriving from various quarters–on a strange odyssey to Florida. This month, his report appears. A long, intricate, fascinating story of what happened to him in the Everglades, as the guest/employee of an obsessed millionaire, and his doomed love for…for what? A woman? A computer program? A new kind of being created by himself and a computer? We pondered the story but couldn't make ultimate sense of it. And yet, its compelling, almost anguished charm made us its partisan. Despite complaints from one of our editors ("it's just too damn long, nobody will read it online, for God's sake!"), the rest of us voted to publish THE CHINESE ROOM uncut, uncensored, as is, in four parts. (That editor's leaving soon to join Salon.com, anyway, so we don't have to listen to her.) The rest of us love the story, every part of it. I wouldn't miss a one of them, if I were you.
(Chapter Seven of GREENBEARD arrived shortly after this month's deadline, and all you GREENBEARD fans out there should know it'll be in EAP next month. It does not disappoint.)
As if that weren't enough, there are these odd communications that keep arriving at EAP World Headquarters about the SEX PATELS. The Sex Patels , you may or may not remember is the name of a mysterious Bollywood punk rock group that we here at EAP fell hopelessly in love with, without being able to get anyone in the group to respond to our requests for information, an interview, anything. Until now. The other night, our cleaner found this coming through, of all things, an ancient telex machine in the corner office that nobody uses. We didn't even know the damn thing worked. But here, modified to protect the innocent, is the gist of the message:
"Well. I have heard muffled talk of an old press interview. It’s all a bit sketchy to tell you the truth. Rumour has it that Julie Parsons wrote it in 1979 for the NME, but it never saw the light of day. It was provisionally titled ‘The Filth and the Fatwa’. I have asked Diva Patel about it several times but have always been met with a stony silence and a slammed door. Still, I am going to dig around a bit for you, make a few phone calls. There is a man in Delhi who might know something etc. I dare not ask Harry about it and I think it wise that you should not either. By Diva’s sustained and cold responses, I feel that the whole thing might be a very sensitive subject.
Give me a few days to try to locate it. I may have to get on a plane. Please promise me this though. If it does exist and you decide to publish it, do not under any circumstances reveal your sources. You have never heard of me before. Ok?"
A few days later: "I have an interview. I had to pay a man a Yak in Delhi. You'll have it soon."
We await developments.
I know this issue is supposed to be about SHOPPING. But things have gotten out of hand.
Welcome back.