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the library with Reinhard Heydrich’s souvenir photo album, “Poland”; J. Herschel abusing himself to the point of madness to photos of Jenny Lind in her corsets; J. Herschel and Mabel A. Royds, the “choir boy”; J. Herschel at the Grand Opening of Cleveland’s Blackamoor Minstrels in Washington, D.C.; J. Herschel and the Reverend Branford Christy, the devout embezzler, chuckling at the Rolling Stones lying in vomit; J. Herschel and Mrs. Christy doing something for which there is no name on the beach at Rio; J. Herschel with the original “lost” draft of Gilbert and Sullivan’s shocking joint confession; J. Herschel inventing the computer program, Pan Urge; J. Herschel and the Bohemian Club of San Francisco making water amid the majestic redwoods; J. Herschel buying Southward Fair; J. Herschel buying the Prado; J. Herschel buying Topeka, Kansas; J. Herschel fainting at the beauty and charm of the fine restaurants of Palo Alto, California, “where dining is a skill”; J. Herschel masquerading as Albert Speer on the last day of Oktoberfest; J. Herschel demonstrating the correct way to eat spaghetti to the ignorant Neapolitans; J. Herschel and Louise Bathy, “Venus’s contortionist,” eating soup off each other’s heads; J. Herschel getting an injection of penicillin for what he often called “the old Joe”; J. Herschel somberly displaying the toilet seat that infected him with the AIDS virus; J. Herschel dancing the rhubarb dance with Moravian peasants in his “return to my roots” excursion; J. Herschel lecturing on the errors made by Captain Cook on his ninth voyage to Sandy Hook; J. Herschel in his Female Blondin costume; J. Herschel cavorting with Mrs. Grandwill and her Company of Sluts; J. Herschel with some of his best friends, none of whom look Jewish; J. Herschel finding God and peace and serenity and regretting his ruthless, selfish, corrupt life; J. Herschel screaming as he is whisked to hell by three demons, all of whom seem pleased with the assignment, jaded though they may be.

JOLIOT-CURIE
    In letters of purest jade: MY LINGERIE IS WORTH MORE THAN YOUR CAR; of shocking pink neon: WOMAN, WOOGIE OR BOOGIE?; of rarest lapis lazuli: ART IS GOOD BUSINESS; of pale bauxite: THERE ARE NO MASTERPIECES; of matte beryllium: I SMELL LIKE A DOITY SKOIT; of Hungarian chalcedony: BIG LOFTS ARE BIG FUN; of scarlet aluminum: DON’T CELEBRATE YESTERDAY; of rhinestone bakelite: CHE BABA CHE BABA CHE BABA; of salsified pearlite: FUCK EL GRECO; of lodestone ebony: MEN ARE PISSERS. Barbrah Joliot-Curie’s conflicting and intrusive MESSAGES, all of which tend toward the metaphysical noise that may be termed the emblematic substitute for what was once mistakenly valorized as a value-based system of so-called “high art,” implicate and suggest a complex, actually, of shifting signs, arranged so as to transgressively subvert modes of corporate anti-colonialist, pre-magicorealist inscription. This gesture is never enough to make one embrace the rebarbative, as Benjamin implies, and rush, metaphorically, to Dom’s Heroes for one of his famous “hoagies,” and yet it is almost enough. In point of fact, Dom’s Extra-Special Hoagie may be culturally indexed as an authentic work of petit-bourgeois, working-class art, and, as such, asserts itself as a proletarian icon whose task it is to displace the various capitalist icons of nonrepresentational complicity. “Hoagies, A Meal in Itself,” as Dom’s shrewdly hand-lettered sign states—the grammatical paradigm carefully distorted so as to render the normative plural singular—boldly insists on the labile, collapsing the symbolic into nothing more than an aporia. And the naïve injunction, EAT MY SANDWICHES, IT’S DELICIOUS!, in glossy black on white cardboard, becomes, then, a radically salutary act of cultural infringement.

JULES VERNE
    A cluster (bunch) of disparate items (things) some of them words, and nothing else but words, HUDDLE(S) in the corner LIKE