Archive for the ‘Kyle Hemmings’ Category


Posted: September 6, 2010 in Anti-Fame, Dan Holloway, Kyle Hemmings, [MESSAGE #1]

[Strip Malls of New Jersey ]+[Kyle Hemmings]

[The Last Fluffer in La La Land]+[Dan Holloway]

[head]+[Dan Holloway]


The BP medication for His condition known as “Grandiose Homunculi” isn’t working. Plus, it’s giving Him fuzzy vision and steering wheel jitters. On some days, when it’s raining toothy blow-jobs for a buck, he feels like a defunct Rambo under a starry night. He turns off the turnpike at Exit 16A, envisioning the perfect mall, a city unto itself, a dreamy Grand Mal Mistress causing Carpenter ants to seize under His skin. He doesn’t give an organic bacon if her heart is cheap labor metal or if her tongue is synthetic seaweed made in Hong Kong. As long as they can invent the giant Whooper Open-mouth 0 Burger that will cause His arteries to spasm like kids playing with firecrackers. He’s been infected by the beautiful glass witch witholding the perfect toy.

He’s the CEO of Brothers-in-Arms Conglomerates, LTD., a company of hand-picked staff-o-matics specializing in mock surveys, squirrelly red-ink tongues and cheeks, and hostile takeovers. It’s the sixth mall today on His highway odyssy riding on the fresh tar of Jersey’s tributaries that branch only onto each other. On any other day, with credit card and proton pump intact, He can seduce an overspent housewife with His seersucker suit and a hint at His raven-mysterious connections.

The last trophy He brought home stole His checkered polyester robe and bunny slippers and brought them home to her husband getting around in a squeaky Hovercraft. She still calls whenever she’s on the lam from cartoon lawyers. In bed, He imagined her eyes as Tiffany multi-color glass or opaque as the one in his sugarbowl. Her breasts were beautiful in tango and Monroe-tragic. Post-orgasm pop, falling eight miles high, He felt like a spent balloon.

Turning off the main road, another town wilth more history than the previous, He spots a mall He’s never seen. It’s for children only with a brazen logo fifty feet up in the air: CHILDREN ONLY. The parents wait at the gates. Now He vaguely remembers. The mall was built by his most stubborn competitor, J. S. Fergus, a man who wanted to give back to the community. As a boy J.S. was nurtured by the donations of strangers, one of Jerry’s kids.

Putting his life in Park, He steps out. He feels dizzy, His heart now pumping like a cocktease and not a self-assured whore. Ink drains from His mouth. Falling to His knees, yet He can crawl. He loosens his tie, squints at the children standing behind glass watching Him. Some reach up and pull down giant floating faces: Mickey, Minni, Daffy, Daisy. A huddle of these children, stuck in one-way embrace, press their noses against the glass. They must think: He’s somebody’s uncle. Or maybe He’s one of us. Look. He’s shrinking.

Tasting His own ink-blood, trying to swallow it, He pushes against an electronically closed door. The guard tells him: Sorry, sir, this is for children only. Do you need an ambulance? The guard smiles and walks away. The air is a sea of blurry heat.

What He wants: to connect every mall in Jersey, to construct from scaffolds and window displays a new Miss America in the shape of His mother, who gave herself fully to his younger brother, stricken with Trisomy 21 and a bad case of cross eye. Meanwhile, as a chld, He was choking on plastic spoons. At night, He dreamt of rock candy houses with walls that rang of child-tenor echolalia.

Some ten years later, at a facility on the outskirts of town, cited for abestos and short staffing, His brother became a bump in the night, while He believed He was suddenly possessed by the ability to bend spoons.

What He hears now in the distance: Lady MawCaw belting over the loudspeakers in the parking lot. “I want a Devil Island lover who can French like a convict. I want me a Spanish Fly in this eternal alphabet soup.”