The Fan Man

The Fan Man

William Kotzwinkle

Language: English

Pages: 160

ISBN: 1940436273

Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub

Selected for a Pharos Editions' reissue by T.C. Boyle and featuring a foreword by Kurt Vonnegut Jr., Pharos Editions is proud to announce the long awaited revival of William Kotzwinkle's cult comic classic, The Fan Man. And just in time it is, too, man. If you haven’t read it you are in for a rare and wondrous treat. If you have, isn’t it about time you returned that copy you borrowed from your best pal Pete back in ‘74 and replace it with this stunning new edition, man?

I am all alone in my pad, man, my piled-up-to-the-ceiling-with-junk pad. Piled with sheet music, with piles of garbage bags bursting with rubbish and encrusted frying pans piled on the floor, embedded with unnameable flecks of putrefied wretchedness in grease. My pad, man, my own little Lower East Side Horse Badorties pad. . . . . . .And so it begins Badorties’ narration of his down-at-the-heels drug-fueled befuddlement in New York City circa 1970.

Recreational Drugs











absolutely terminal incompetence and loneliness. One must understand that in this book Badorties is the only judge, and that has to be judge enough, or, again, this book cannot be for you. It is like an egg. Everything which is supposed to be inside the shell is in there. Good luck to the egg, and good luck to you. Kurt Vonnegut January 1994 The Fan Man Chapter 1 Horse Badorties’ Number One Pad I am all alone in my pad, man, my piled-up-to-the-ceiling-with-junk pad. Piled

man, I’m ready to leap over a tall building in a single bound, help me to the door, man, I have terrible indigestion, man, from those motherfucking Transylvanian bacteria, man.” “Why don’t you smoke a little of this, man?” “You’re right, man. Let’s be civilized.” The sax player takes out a stash of Peruvian mango skins, the mild vegetable stimulant to help you see the iguanas in your eyeballs. “Allow me to ignite it with my Japanese match, man. ” Scratch… scratch “Here, man, try a

Rodriguez, giving the boat a little shove, man, and I am going out into the channel, manning the oars, man, making gentle ripples in the water and pulling away from land. Waves sparkle oars rise, fall, and as the boathouse slips away behind me, man, the roof gleaming in the sunlight, it seems to become a Chinese pagoda. Long ago, man, I was a Chinese boatman, skilled with oars, able to make a boat move fast. The old Chinese boatman vibes are taking over now, man, making the oars really work,

doin?” “The pitch seems all right, man. I can’t understand the problem.” “Seems all right, does it?” “Operating perfectly, man. But I’ll just check it out on the oscillator.” Removing from my satchel, man, the Doctor Badorties army surplus stethoscope, man. Putting the rubber-tipped prongs in my ears, man, and applying the sensitive listening disc to the heart of the Great Fan. Oh, man, this is fantastic, man. This is the primal voice, man, singing into my stethoscope. I hear a thousand

pinch of Mexican papaya leaf, man, to get my enzymes flowing, sprinkling the leaves into the bowl of the hookah. And then I dig out the World’s Fair award-winning best-design Japanese perpetual match–a small square metal container filled with lighter fluid, in which a slender steel-supported wick of flint and cotton is immersed. By simply pulling out this match of cotton-steel and striking it along the abrasive face of the container, I shall have fire with which to light my health-food pipe.

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