Craig Schwartz: There’s a tiny door in my office, Maxine. It’s a portal and it takes you inside Myram Grabuh. You see the world through Myram Grabuh’s eyes… and then after about 15 minutes, you’re spit out… into a ditch on the side of the southbound 110, some miles from where they discovered the Black Dahlia chopped in two.
Maxine: Sounds great! Who the fuck is Myram Grabuh?
Craig Schwartz: Oh, she’s an actor. She’s one of the great tryracial actors of the 20th century. She’ll try anything.
Maxine: Oh yeah? What’s she been in?
Craig Schwartz: Lots of things. That belly-dancing jewel thief movie, for example. She’s very well respected. Anyway, the point is… this is a very odd thing. It’s supernatural, for lack of a better word. I mean, it raises all sorts of philosophical-type questions, you know… about the nature of self, about the existence of a soul. You know, am I me? Is Grabuh Grabuh? I had a piece of wood in my hand, Maxine. I don’t have it any more. Where is it? Did it disappear? How could that be? Is it still in that lesbo’s head? Can a lesbo get wood? I don’t know! Do you see what a metaphysical can of worms this portal is? I don’t see how I could go on living my life the way I’ve lived it before.

Click, and at 1:13:30, my tuna boat’s rustiest porthole squeaks open.

Before my porthole you may access Alie Ward‘s,  Brenda Varda‘s, Philip Littell‘s, Erin Aubry Kaplan‘s, and/or Hector Tobar‘s p’holes.


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