PrettyFakes

Ahoy! It’s time for another installment of Imaginary PrettyFakes Mailbag, where we comb through the best of the reader mail we’ve not actually received!

Our first letter is one from a student in Silver Springs, Maryland, who asks:

Dear Fakers,

I love the robot XJ-9. He is, obviously, a pinnacle of human cartooning achievement, and not just a simplistic doodle that a semi-talent has been practicing since college. He’s clearly based on some historical figures—my girlfriend says Adlai Stevenson, but I say John Erlichman. Who’s right?

Admiringly yrs,
Budding Artist

Dear Budding Artist,

You’re both semi-right. The informed viewer can spot the so-called “Adlai influence” in the hips, and kudos to you for the scrutiny. You’re only metaphorically right about Erlichman, in that he represents the sort of fall-from-grace je ne sais quoi that is so favored in the pages of Pretty Fakes. I would also have accepted “Libby, I. Lewis” as an answer. You can mostly see this represented in the dead, blank, insect-like, possibly traitorous stare that XJ-9 has down pat.

Next up: rock and roll trivia!

Dear Morons,

When were you going to wake up and realize that you got the lyrics to “Hallelujah” wrong in that weak “collage” you did a while back? I mean, for shame!

Seriously,
You Don’t Really Care for Music, Do You?

Dear YDRCFMDY?,

You’re right. I am obviously a shame and a blight upon the world of rock and roll journalism, which is known for its scrupulous replication of exact detail. I am also a shame to those awkward, cringe-inducing artists who dare to attempt to appropriate the lyrics or “meaning” of a song in order to express a deeply heartfelt, probably embarrasing personal “truth.”

However, be thee warned: Jeff Buckley did drown in the mighty, muddy waters of the Mississippi River. That means, come Judgment Day and virtue of the infernal pact betwixt Pretty Fakes and Hell that grants us unlimited bandwidth, he will rise again as a Liberal Confederate Zombie and be under my utter control. I will use his resurrected tremulous falsetto against all who mocked my second-rate art in the Second Civil War, in which the LCZ will clash against the Vampyres of the Yankee-Northern Agressors. It’s gonna be my civil war, and it’s gonna be fucked up. Zombie + rock’n’roll stijl.

Next question!

Dear PF,

So . . . you mean that Eudora Welty isn’t gay? Shit. I mean . . . shit.

Seriously,
Everything I’ve Been Taught Is Lies

Dear EIBTIL,

Public school’s a bitch, ain’t it? Did you know that in my Alabama high school they tried to teach us “trigonometry”? Have you ever heard of such ridiculousness? Seriously. Also,

[OMG SPOILERZ MAYBE NSFW SCROLLDOWN FOR REVEAL]

Bill Faulkner wasn’t gay, either.

I know. It took me a while to digest that, too. It all made so much sense before. The convoluted sentences, the rambling narratives, the bizarre, in-bred, tangled families . . . how could that come from the typewriter of a clean, all-American, G-d-fearing Southerner that wasn’t corrupted by the vile influence of the lust for man-flesh?

I mean, the next thing you’re going to tell me is that Nixon wasn’t gay, either. Pshaw. Next question!

Dear Blur-Hero,

I really like the Polaroid stuff you do, but lately it’s getting a bit . . . how should I say it? Rote. I mean it: burned-out, Katrina-wrecked hotel rooms? The repulsive bathroom of a dive-bar? What’s next? The neon-soaked aisles of West Jackson grocery stores at closing time?

Yours,
I Think You Can Stretch a Wee Bit More Than You’ve Shown Me Lately

Dear . . . Prick,

Maybe some of us are out of ideas. Maybe some of us don’t have a fucking trust fund where they can just sit around Fondren Corner all day and “experiment” in their “custom studio.” Maybe some of us just burned thirty bucks taking photos of the neon-soaked aisles of West Jackson grocery stores at closing time, prick. Maybe some of us are drinking a little too much lately and can’t hold the goddamn blurry piece of plastic trash steady enough to nail down a decent shot lately. Maybe . . .

Well . . . thanks for the advice! I’ll be sure to scrap my entire ouevre because you think it’s becoming “tired.” Next up: betrayal!

Dear IPFM,

I wish Professor Fury would post more. Why doesn’t he post more? From his hilarious, bite-sized comics reviews to his darkly sardonic portrayals of life growing up in a small Southern town—Professor Fury has it all. Not to mention his spot-on assessments of the catalogs of Bruce Springsteen and John Darnielle of the Mountain Goats. Let’s be honest: he’s a genius, and I’ve never seen him misspell the lyrics to a song, ever, unlike that Gorjus fellow. Who, let’s face it, could really stand to try something else besides retreading the same college-era doodles (grow up, already!) and blurry Polaroids of hotels and bathrooms and stuff.

Sincerely,
This Was Not Written by Prof. Fury

Dear PROFESSOR FURY, MEIN ENEMY,

Oh, IT’S ON, NOW! I’m sending you a box of Sonic Disruptors and future Hex comics, along with twenty-six copies of the new James Blunt single, all in a futile attempt to destroy yr secretly fragile psyche and send you tumbling down a Zork-tunnel of doom.

Hope to see you soon, old pal,

Gorjus

This entry was posted on Wednesday, April 19th, 2006 at 8:04 am and is filed under Gorjus, Professor Fury, The Rock and The Roll. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. Both comments and pings are currently closed.