EastWesterly Review Home -- Blog -- EastWesterly Review -- Take2 -- Martin Fan Bureau -- Fonts a Go-Go -- Games -- Film Project -- Villagers -- Graveyard
Custom Search



42 | 41 | 40
39 | 38 | 37 | 36 | 35
34 | 33 | 32 | 31 | 30
29 | 28 | 27 | 26 | 25
24 | 23 | 22 | 21 | 20
19 | 18 | 17 | 16 | 15
14 | 13 | 12 | 11 | 10
9 | 8 | 7 | 6 | 5
4 | 3 | 2 | 1

Annual Conferences

26th | 25th
| 23rd | 22nd
21st | 20th | 19th
| 17th | 16th
| 14th | 13th
12th | 11th | 10th
9th | 8th | 7th

Foundling Theory Fund

Letters from the editor

Submit your article


help support us -- shop through this Amazon link!

Creative Commons License

This work is licensed
under a Creative Commons
4.0 International License

Postmodern Village
est. 1999
e-mail * terms * privacy
"Hap,"a Long Casualty
By E.W. Wilder

The following is quite possibly as short-storyish as Bean Newton was likely to get and resulted from his "cowboy phase" which was itself inspired by Newton finding a box of trinkets in his parents' basement from a family vacation to the Southwest. Newton had been only five at the time of the trip, and the troupe of tiny plastic cowgirls and the Matchbox lowrider he found in the box brought back a flood of doubtlessly inaccurate memories.

Accuracy is the bane of inspiration, however, and the now grown-up Newton clearly had other things in mind that influenced his own perceptions of the past.

This piece, thought to date to July of 1994, also marks the first known appearance of the character of Whip Shitback, Bean Newton's Wild West(ern) alter-ego.


Rurally Blightness: a Sketch of Hap Jones, aka Whip Shitback, Cowboy Pitchman of the Burlesque West
by Bean Newton

Shovel-faced, spitooned, of an altruistic camel, he had my battle-sides as a stack of vinyl records, still we loved him like sleep loves his brothers, deveined night and crackling dawn, who, in these days of modern clowning may as well be himself. Complexities abounded in his personality, a pimple with a city inside. It was like the ground beneath the earthquake had subsided, letting the quake float free through the air like a bad song over the blown speakers in a '65 Impala. How's those for gold rims, Pendejo?

I'd believed in him from the very beginning, knew he could achieve the lip-blow milk frothing award ten years running. But his own family was more skeptical: "He can't froth eggs with a tulip," his Pappy said. His mammy said, "His lips ain't fit to suckle my dry old nipples." It was an art warming bit of family scansion for me at least in my tutu and cardboard brassiere.

He did it, though, standing on his head in the peanut gallantry, out of whacklike with the fryer hydrant brigade, taking up the rear to avoid the dog pack. I told him if he could we'd have a parade, and as mayor of this earthy little berg I made it happen, all 88 yards of ticker tape and used condoms and the flash off a '62 Airstream of it too.

All Minnesota came out to watch, marching right out their closets, half-anised gerontalia firmly in hand and chanting "Yes, M(0)ther, we see you your milk girdle and raise you ten preteen pudendum fuzz." I holed out for the bunker and got just drunk enough to declare myself king. They'll be holding a special erection next week with the horseheads and John Running Two Rivers working the bar. Be there for your own sake—my first decree as potentate is to do a way with all the sinners.