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Volume 6, Issue 1 January 2015



bitchin’ kitsch


about b’k:

The Bitchin’ Kitsch is a zine for artists, poets, prose writers, or anyone else who has something to say. It exists for the purpose of open creativity. All submissions are due on the 26th for the following month’s issue. Please review the submission guidelines on our Submissions page (www.talbot-heindl.com/bitchin_kitsch/submissions) before submitting your work.

community copies:

Stevens Point readers, sit down and read The Bitchin’ Kitsch at our community locations: zest, the coffee studio, tech lounge, and noel fine arts center.


The Bitchin’ Kitsch is offering crazy low rates. Order ads on our Shop The B’K page (www.talbot-heindl.com/support_us/shop_thebk).

donation and acquisition:

Printing costs can be a bitch, which is why we continuously look for donations. Any amount helps and is appreciated. We also sell back copies of The B’K. To do either, visit our Shop The B’K page (www.talbotheindl.com/support_us/shop_thebk).


On top of being the best publication ever created by human hands, The B’K would also like to present other opportunities that may be helpful to you as creators. If you have suggestions that could improve our list, please let us know. Resources we are privy to can be found at our Resources page (www.talbot-heindl.com/bitchin_kitsch/resources).


table of contents.

6-9 – That Day I was Jesus Christ (Total Eclipse of the Heart), Kai Coggin

22 – The Masked Man, Dr. Mel Waldman

10-11 – Marvin Shrugged, Sy Roth

24 – Brain Digger, Adam Andreasen

12-16 – Blind Date, Rob Hobkirk

25 – bird erections, Kelly Weber

17 – GarbageMan, Chris TalbotHeindl

26-28 – Texarkana Blood Solitude, Peter Marra 30-31 – Tatiana, Al Hogan 32 – Donors and Index 34-35 – January Calendar

Danielle Kvatek - pg. 5

On the Cover Between Two Colors Carolyn Adkins Painting

On the Back Cover Double Exposure Danielle Kvatek Photograph

Jihane Mossalim - pg. 19

In This Issue

18 – those mile long Chevrolets, Arif Ahmad

4 –Mechanics Armed with Righteous Fire, Keith Moul

19 – A Dark Sea of Ghosts, Jihane Mossalim & Roo Bardookie

5 – Drusy Chysocolla & Emerald Pendant, Danielle Kvatek

20-21 – Everybody wants to be a Pharaoh, Sissy Buckles

Adam Andreasen - pg. 24


keith moul.

Mechanics Armed with Righteous Fire

By: Keith Moul

Sleepless, I share my night with soulless, tortured men and tortured, soulful men who plan my death by righteous fire. Never in daylight, never before this time has this been clear to me. The all-around-me world careened; the all around me truth careened; the all around me lies careened; hawkers sweet on selling, sold what ancient priests condemned, what modern priests condemn as heresy, urged on by ancient gods. Ancient ideas inspire new work. I had looked to night, my mind wanting to move toward light, as ideological soldiers, new mechanics, come, armed to kill with new technologies.


danielle kvatek.

Drusy Chrysocolla & Emerald Pendant Danielle Kvatek Mixed media


kai coggin. That Day I was Jesus Christ (Total Eclipse of the Heart) By: Kai Coggin

When I think of eclipses, I remember a skit I was in where I played the part of Jesus, yes, Jesus Christ, hanging on a cross in front of 2,000 people, a chubby girl - almost a woman, a closeted young maybe lesbian, an inner confusion and desperate sadness, arms stretched out, hands grasping the back of the mighty crossbar, breasts holding, softly, the word “MESSIAH” written boldly in neon green on a white t-shirt. I was 17, a tomboy with no makeup baggy torn bluejeans, sarcasm lingering on my lips, dark hair that curtained each side of my sullen, stoic face. It was the hair that hung in front of my face that set me apart from the other kids in my Catholic church youth group, as we prepared to perform this skit at a conference where 2,000 kids would gather to worship, and I was mostly a tangled mess of not belonging everywhere, and feeling this “God” might be a safe place, or at least less dark than alone with my thoughts. Plus, my mom made me go. So there I was, making my lesbian Jesus debut, I held in the laughter, I think, maybe didn’t even realize the irony until years later, swallowed the stage-fright, chased it with a little terror. The skit was a dramatization set to the song…


kai coggin (con’t). you guessed it, Total Eclipse of the Heart yes, “turn around… every now and then I get a little bit blah, blah, blah, blah…” that’s the one. Got the song in your head? Good. Here I am, Jesus, standing on the tiny platform, arms and body hanging on a thick wooden cross, brown curtained face looking down as the other kids slyly vulture around the heroine of the skit, a pretty, popular girl being taunted by all the pressures of growing up, the personifications of evil sins and dangerous vices circling her, prodding her, screaming in her face SEX (circling) ALCOHOL (circling) WEED (circling) COCAINE (circling) ECSTASY (circling) LYING (circling) SKIPPING CLASS (circling) STEALING (circling) PREGNANCY (circling) DROPPING OUT (circling) Around and around, around and around some more, faster and faster, (it almost makes me cringe) these walking taunting posters of so-called sins surround our young heroine in a sea of hopelessness and despair, until finally, she crashes to the ground in total loss! Through the silence sings the bellowing raspy voice of Bonnie Tyler— “Turnaround bright eyes, but every now and then I fall apart! Turnaround bright eyes, every now and then I fall apart! And I need you now tonight! And I need you more than ever! And if you only hold me tight! We’ll be holding on forever… I really need you tonight! Forever’s gonna start tonight...”

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kai coggin (con’t). That’s when I step off the cross and to go to her, my broken young follower, my torn down, persecuted child, as if I am Savior, as if I am Messiah, Mess i ah, Mess I am, Mess of me becoming salvation? At that moment, I almost believe it, the 2,000 sets of hopeful eyes moved by the chaos, the dramatic lighting, the whirling and screaming suddenly stopped by this brief tenderness, we all wanted to be saved like this! we all wanted that hanging story of a man to be a friend, a real and tangible God. “I really need you tonight! Forever’s gonna start tonight! Forever’s gonna start tonight! Once upon a time there was light in my life But now there’s only love in the dark” I went to her and pulled her up into my arms, I held her in the most believable way, and wrapped her in everything that I could muster that looked like Strength, that looked like picking up pieces of shattered life, that looked like Jesus Christ reaching out His compassionate hand, through my own trembling, troubled 17 year old fingers, “Nothing I could say, a total eclipse of the Heart Turnaround bright eyes, every now and then I fall apart Turnaround bright eyes, every now and then I fall apart” She looked at me like I was someone else, not the same girl that made jokes at rehearsal, as tears poured down both of our faces, and I looked out to a sea of many young eyes welling, it was as if something came through me, even I believed in my own power for that moment, I held her again and the spotlight


kai coggin (con’t). made it appear that we were both glowing. I took her hand and we went to each of the kids holding the posters, each frozen in their places after her collapse, “Turnaround, every now and then I get a little bit terrified And then I see the look in your eyes Turnaround bright eyes, but every now and then I fall apart Turnaround bright eyes, every now and then I fall apart” They dropped their signs as I embraced them, “sex, alcohol, weed, cocaine, ecstasy, lying, skipping class, stealing, pregnancy, dropping out” like falling leaves on the stage floor, their characters rushing to my arms like I was offering some blanket of forgiveness, and maybe I was. I walked off the stage like I was floating, they all followed like disciples, the audience was a roaring hallelujah, and this was not supposed to be a religious poem, but God damnit, I believed in something that day, maybe it was because those kids believed that I should be Jesus that something Divine took me over, maybe I am reimagining this moment more glorious than it really was, and it was just a skit, and that was that, end of story, or maybe it was my very own inner Light telling me that this was not the only time in my life that I was to be crucified, and that those sins would all hold my name in their hungry mouths. I don’t know… but I did meet my first girlfriend at that youth conference, and to this day, every time I hear Total Eclipse of the Heart, or I think of eclipses, I remember a day when I was both broken and Holy, when I was a mess and a Messiah. “Turn around bright eyes…”


sy roth. Marvin Shrugged By: Sy Roth

He shrugged for the thousandth time, Until his neck muscles ached. Shoulders bunched into two gelatinous mounds Wobbling against his jug ears. He turned away from her smoke curling like a halo above his head staring off into space, transported by solitary musings. Time spent on the outside, Of their crooked house under a makeshift, metal-enshrouded porch the house behind them matched them— an unadorned, shabby box. Abandoned their domicile to smoke, pore over last week’s news, same as today and pet, Soot, an over-sized, gray Tom who lazed, on a cushion a gaudy Victorian -flocked print pillow they found at a garage sale. It had value. The Tom stretched lazily on it mewling.


sy roth (con’t).

His wife ended entreaties to mend the hanging drain pipe, or fill the cavities that made the tires squeal on the driveway or reset the cobblestones that once trimmed it. Marvin shrugged under a gray sky that hung limpid above the tin roof no longer troubled by a chaos-filled world, his unreachable dreams sliced and diced by ennui. She stretched by his side arms caressing her breasts and she stared at the Tom and the curling smoke there beneath the rusted awning. And the children from the neighborhood pointed at the curious old house, giggled at its oddities expecting Boo Radley to walk lazily out to the edge of the driveway and boo them away, a whitened ghost of a man embracing his body to ward off a cold wind whipping past his crooked house. Watching them in thrall of their kingdom, the other gray ghosts slivers of lips drooping from slack-jawed mouths riding gingerly above their empty faces— shook their heads in pity. To them, he was irrelevant, to Marvin as well. He shrugged and the gray Tom licked its anus.


rob hobkirk.

Blind Date

By: Rob Hobkirk http://hobkirkartblog.blogspot.com/

I was on a blind date of sorts with someone I met on Craigslist. The first instant I saw her, there was something about her that was drawing me to her. Maybe it was her slightly trashy looks. We met at an upscale bar. I figured not meeting at Starbucks was a good idea because the caffeine would make me go on like a babbling hyper idiot. She ordered white wine and I ordered Schweppes tonic water without the booze. The drinks came and I took a hit.

The first thing she said was, “I don’t know how you can drink that stuff straight?” “You mean without the liquor to kill the taste?” “Yeah, it’s so bitter.” “That’s what I like about it. It’s bitter like me. We match. We’re compatible.” “You mean you’re a grumpy old man.” “Right. Can’t help it. That’s what happens when you get old.” “Well, I’m an optimist.”


rob hobkirk (con’t). “I’m an optimist too, just a grumpy optimist.” “You don’t sound like you’ve lived long in the City. You like living here?” “It’s okay, but I would rather live in a land of mystics and poets.” “What would that be like, and where would you find such a place? “What would it be like to live in a land of mystics and poets? And where would I look for such a place? I think it exists only in my imagination.” She asked, “Would you recognize a real poet, the genuine article, not some knockoff?” “For sure. He would carry his poetry in a plastic bag.” She grimaced. “A plastic bag? What kind of plastic bag?” “Like a Kohl’s bag, or Target.” “I think I get it. No pretentions. No Gucci, “ she lifted the corner of her bag. “And why mystics?” “Because they see the humor in the situation. The irony. The great big pregnant pause in the universe before every calamity.” “Wasn’t there a laughing Buddha?” “You mean the fat little guy with the pot belly sitting on top of the TV?” “Yeah, that’s the one.” “I don’t know that much about Buddha, other than he died of food poisoning.” I took a swig of tonic water, and its bitterness tightened up my thinking, bringing me back to earth, back from the land of haze. “You sure about that?” “Not really. Like I said I don’t know that much about Buddha. But I know that Thomas Merton killed himself by stepping out of the shower, into a puddle where an electric fan was running. Zap. And he was a big fan of the Buddha.” “There’s a moral to the story, I’m sure.” “It’s good to know the secrets of the universe but better to have

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rob hobkirk (con’t). common sense and practical knowledge. Like don’t step in puddles with electric fans.” “Make sure to close the shower door.” “Exactly.” “And you’ve got practical knowledge?” “I have trouble changing the light bulb.” “Too bad. I always wanted a man who could fix things around the house.” “I always wanted a woman who could cook good. How about you? Can you cook?” “Not very well.” “There you go. It all balances out.” “You think it was an accident?” “No, I think it’s because you aren’t interested in cooking.” “I mean about Merton.” “Could have been the C.I.A. or more likely the Vatican.” “Blaming the C.I.A. is such a cliché.” Oh, oh. I’ve alienated her by calling her pretentious because of her bag, that she can’t cook because she doesn’t care. I’m sure she’s sick of me being so friggin’ witty. It’s almost time for her to check her phone and say she has to go. “You’re right. It is a cliché.” “Relax. You aren’t a jerk, at least not a big jerk. I’ve kissed a few princes and found only toads. Tell me some more about Merton. Loved his title of his book Seven Story Mountain. Ever read it?” “No, never did. But I met a monk once who knew Merton. They were monks together in Kentucky.” “What did he have to say about him?” “All he could do was bad mouth Merton. The old Monk said, ‘He called himself a monk, but he wasn’t a monk. Him with his private hut and all, huh.”


rob hobkirk (con’t). “Really?” “Yeah, really. It was a real eye opener. Real disillusionment. Not about Merton, but about being a monk. I went to this Trappist monastery in Northern California, just on a retreat. I wanted to check it out. Thought about becoming a monk and finding enlightenment. Saw this old monk who seemed to glow. Thought I could learn something I didn’t know from him. Then he hits me with bad mouthing Merton. The old monk said he had been a monk for over fifty years. This is what you get after fifty years, a sour disposition about someone who has been dead for over thirty. I can get just as sour as that on my own without all the Hail Marys, thank you very much.” “How many monks at this place?” “About thirty, I guess.” “At least they’re trying. Trying to find some happiness.” “I was trying for more than happiness. Going for the cosmic high, something that can only be found by finding God. Heaven on Earth. Decided I wouldn’t find it at the monastery, not after talking to the old monk. “ “You still looking for heaven on Earth?” “Nah, I’m happy being depressed.” “You’re funny,” she laughed. “One fat dumb and happy Buddha, laughing until the TV blacks out, that’s me.” We talked for a couple hours or more that seemed like only fifteen minutes. She laughed at all my jokes, and never once did she complain about her parents. I think I was starting to fall in love. I wanted to see her again. Finally she said, “What time is it?” “Almost 11.” “Eek. Didn’t realize it was that late. I’ve got to go.”

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rob hobkirk (con’t). “Sure. I enjoyed this evening.” Now it was over. I wondered how she would brush me off. “Can I help you get a cab?” “Yeah, you can do that.” She got up. I helped her on with her coat. She got her white cane, tapping it ahead of us as I walked with her outside, holding her arm. A yellow taxi pulled up, and I opened the door for her. She abruptly grabbed me by my jacket and kissed me on my plastic mask. She placed her free hand on the cheek of my mask. “What’s that?” she asked, a little shocked. “I guess I should have told you. That’s a mask I have to wear when I’m out in public. I had an accident, horrible burns on my face. It scares people when they see it.” “So you wanted to meet me because I’m blind?” she didn’t seem angry but a little put off. “Guilty.” “Don’t say guilty. You did nothing wrong, just looking for a little happiness. What’s so wrong about that? Like you said, it balances out. Meet me here tomorrow night, same time.”


chris talbot-heindl.

GarbageMan Chris Talbot-Heindl Digitally enhanced ink on paper www.talbot-heindl.com


arif ahmad.

those mile long Chevrolets By: Arif Ahmad www.arifahmadmd.blogspot.com

The kid I was growing up loved watching the stars and this one in particular which stood out bright Ah, those mile long Chevrolets, that postcard of New York city by night This place they said where dreams come true I would close my eyes, pretend and reach out to Reach out I did call it home The season was “country before self.” The year was “give it your all.” And now some fulfilled dreams later I hesitate, I ponder This then those these the times have changed Now in the age of self-siege and standoff Of partisan jousting and deadlock Taking some serious heat, getting beat, my dreams, and my star Pulverized into sand I am frantically trying holding on to in my clenched hand


jihane mossalim & roo bardookie.

A Dark Sea of Ghosts

By: Jihane Mossalim & Roo Bardookie (A She Danced With Me Co-Production) In the churning froth down the steepest of cliffs The Ghosts of 10,000 sailors and seamen circle They await their chance for their spirit to ride a wind wild wave and crash into a volcano rock Releasing them in a ghostly mist Then sadly they realize they have left their heaven of a watery grave home They won’t be back until the clouds piss them down into the haunted ocean again


sissy buckles. Everybody wants to be a Pharaoh

By: Sissy Buckles

So my landlord Bernie is gone, swept away by a rogue wave while fishing at his place in Baja, old age and a couple of Coronas combined to forget the number one rule don’t ever turn your back on El Mar, just retired he had it made in the shade they found his body three days later unrecognizably blanched and swollen washed up on the forsaken shore. I took some memorial photos with my durable Kodak Pony of his classic Chevy cars that he built and kept in my garage the film low contrast black/white and grainy so you have to look closer to see the significant details; classification numbers still on the Tangerine Twist ‘57 truck windshield from Barona 1/8 Mile Drags next to his baby 1940 Special Deluxe sedan ruby sheened with custom tweed interior


sissy buckles (con’t).

and lyrical gangster whitewalls, a mid-seventies big-boobed blondes in hot pants girlie calendar hangs by Motocross racing posters and ancient vanity plate that says ‘Sinbad’, King Pins Car Club relics and plaques, vintage Craftsman chests next to gas-welders a testament to good old fashioned do-it-yourself ingenuity taking a stand against Corporate planned obsolescence, polaroids of post-race award ceremonies the fellas wearing flannel Pendleton’s flanked by leggy trophy gals tacked to the wall side by side with yearly competition license lined up in a tattered row. His tools strewn in workbench mess but he liked them handy that way, cig butts still on the floor that he hid from his wife because she’s a nice lady and worrier amidst floating cellophane wrappers from the candy mints he ate before heading back home after he finished up the day’s wrenching.


dr. mel waldman. The Masked Man By Dr. Mel Waldman

After dark, the masked man walks among us, in the labyrinth of lacerated streets, the blood-strewn black holes of Brooklyn, where folks vanish, in the mutilated miasma, after dark, in the ferocious night. He hides his mournful eyes, but he is not the Lone Ranger, nor his sidekick Tonto, reinvented by the actor Johnny Depp. He trudges across the crimson-streaked landscape in the snowstorm, a ghost with only phantom companions. I follow him to Coney Island and clamber up the steps to the Boardwalk. I want to know who he is. He stands beneath a full moon, gazing at the whirling Wonder Wheel, a swirl of old memories in the storm with spheres of fire burning wildly, seeking a lost truth buried in the ancient forest of his mind. Who is the masked man? I want to know, for I am his shadow, the ghost of a ghost, in search of my fugitive identity.


r.t ve se um lb

ta es at re

0g 50

www.ta lb o t - h ei n d l . c o m r.c bl um om “Dancing Girls in Colourful Rays” Ernst Ludwig Kirchner


adam andreasen.

Brain Digger Adam Andreasen Illustration marker facebook.com/AndreasenArts


kelly weber. bird erections By: Kelly Weber

the seventh day the cardinal slammed into the side of the house and started leaving blood streaks I looked out and saw he had a tiny little cardinal erection beak open hopping on scrawny black legs leaping back and forth from deck to tree back to deck again and up into the brown woven nest where at night he dangled worms down for tiny peeping things with bizarre alien blue heads bulging like their brain hadn’t made up its mind whether to be an eyeball or not and every day when he caught sight of that Goddamn reflection of his in the sun he’d fly toward it again and again little cock out to slam into the glass and fix himself again and again beak to window beak to window beating his head against sky breaking himself raw on his own reflection above my eggs and rice in the morning while I stared


peter marra. Texarkana Blood Solitude By: Peter Marra

(During the spring of 1946, the hooded Texarkana Phantom Killer murdered 5 people and wounded 3 in Texarkana) “Why didn’t he kill me? He killed so many others!” — Mary Jeanne Larey, victim 1.

make me alone in fields of vacant pleasures where old habits were resurrected in bitten skin illuminated by ecstatic moonlight a gunshot ravaged and banged against the night drearily watching as life escaped pale teeth marks burned into memories the song of the Spanish moss smothered in humidity is often heard but never understood by the flesh flowers 2.

strike forth again in mystery snuffed to the shooting through the door of dirty canvas proven by the glistening of tongues to create a picture to represent your mind blissed out to the receiver a glazed look over a hollowness that was building in intensity finally almost finally iridescent finally felt the pleasure of having a subconscious those hands felt something in it 3.

gun accompaniment car radio mixing white noise lust she summoned for help while red and sloppy she gulped down a hit ferociously


peter marra (con’t). a mixture of moonshine and their blood then blessed her tools on the lunar altar it was this other feeling that she had never experienced while sleeping beneath the dark pleasures of approaching automobiles always going down with blood always lost in moonlight the rush felt numb as she had always said open a pane and let the blood in 4.

make me alone the taste of the tattooed heart is always accusing me with silent empty thoughts the Phantom yearned for the Hollywood cowboys and that taste of Peckinpah gore that we lost track of years ago look at her to see the thing just beyond stream back through the living room she came out to remind you as she crept as she crept leaving town to live 5.

nails raked skin deliver a pain burn for the bride that used to inhabit the farmhouse down the road where utterances were recognized by the thing outside making the body quiver with obscene anticipation because blood was the highway to her heart as luridly described in the Gazette that morning forever twisted and clenched in love blissed out as the nails dug deeper eyes rolled over as teeth bit deeper as she claimed what had always been hers

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peter marra (con’t). 6.

scared love scarred so hide it under a mask twisted lips at the moment of climax couldn’t see it she missed the train her only escape her victims were few but she was proud of each accomplishment under the nighttime clouds that grew grey in the bright moonlight edged in acid etched by her passion shadow of her legs lips on skin across the living room floor blood spread 7.

semen splattered under crosses erected coursing down under the voice of Screamin’ Jay Hawkins wash your skin over and over run to hide to sleep escape that loss escape that flinching remove the hood to reveal the feminine face of the perpetrator you may want twisted things in the heat because of it she could hear her youth under the tires tugging tugging couldn’t stand it any sloppier make me alone please please



al hogan. Tatiana

By: Al Hogan

I first met Tatiana on a cold, snowy evening some dark November night - or maybe it was a December night - I don’t remember exactly. I was at a party that I never should have been invited to in the first place, in some house that was so beautifully decorated but so sterile looking, I wondered if anybody actually lived there. However, there I was and there she was. She was regal and royal with her pretentious sophistication. Yet, bubbling beneath had been someone with a quirky sense of humor and a level of sarcasm that immediately attracted me. For some reason, probably out of boredom, we struck up a conversation and in some manner found a kindred spirit in each other. We slipped out of the stuffy ballroom with the stuffy people in it, and found a nice quiet porch on the second floor where we looked at the moon and the stars and occasionally babbled about something so insignificant that I can’t remember what it was.

At the end of the night, she asked me to call her the next week. I was exuberant but figured it was the vodka talking and that in the morning she would have forgotten our interaction. She slipped me a piece of paper with a number on it. The next morning I thought I might have dreamed it all, but there it was; the piece of paper with the writing on it that could have maybe passed for some version of Japanese. I deciphered the numbers but I waited for a couple of days because I didn’t want her to think I was desperate to call her (which I was). Partly, I didn’t think she would remember me, and partly I didn’t want her to think she must have a serious drinking problem to have given her number to somebody like me. Maybe the number wasn’t a real phone number or hers anyway and she just did for laughs.


al hogan (con’t). So the phone number sat uncalled for a few days while I went back and forth as to whether I should actually try it. I suddenly realized I felt like I was back in high school stressing over whether I should call the cheerleader or not. This struck me as somewhat pathetic, so I picked up the phone and called her. She answered and I said “Hey, its Al…” Silence. I was going to hang up and then mumbled, “…the guy from the party last weekend.” She said, “Oh, yes…” in a voice which I wasn’t sure was welcoming me or mocking me. “Took you long enough,” she said and off we went speaking as casually and easily as before. As I got to know her I found that she was like a symphony: beautiful, soft, and comforting; and she had money - not that it mattered - well I must admit, that was nice too. She was captivating with beautiful harmony, style, and grace that left me spellbound and wanting more. As the old line goes, we made some beautiful music together, at least for a short time. However, the longer I got to know her, I found her mood could change quickly and her symphony could also produce loud, harsh and tortured notes: sounds that very quickly became incredibly annoying. Maybe that’s why nobody played her for too long as I found out later. I was enchanted with her but I was tired too. I was getting tired of the dramatic interludes. I also realized that she needed a virtuoso to play her deep intricate passages and complicated bridges that swayed in the wind, tortured scherzos and all. She was a complex piece and there were times when I felt my fingers were taped together when I tried to clumsily play her. “Yes,” I thought to myself, “she needs a master musician to make her happy and satisfy her demands for perfection. And here I am, some mediocre piano bar player clearly over my head; someone who doesn’t know any women beyond three-chord rockers that might have been written down on a dirty napkin.” Eventually, we drifted apart, as I knew that we probably would. We found some common ground for one brief, magical time, but that ground fell away from under our feet and the magic sank with it. I think she is probably off somewhere in her mansion, living a comfortable life, still looking for an accomplished player who could bring out the best in her. I carve out a day-to-day existence, like some kind of mediocre bar band looking for their next gig. Well, it was fun while it lasted.


donors, index. artists Adkins, Carolyn


Ahmad, Arif


Andreasen, Adam


Coggin, Kai

Bardookie, Roo


Hobkirk, Rob


Hogan, Al


Buckles, Sissy


Kvatek, Danielle Marra, Peter Mossalim, Jihane


5, 36 26-28 19

Moul, Keith Roth, Sy

4 10-11

Talbot-Heindl, Chris


Waldman, Dr. Mel


Weber, Kelly


we love our donors!

We love our donors, and to prove it, we’re going to let you know who they are. Without their generosity, the Bitchin’ Kitsch would probably not make it through the year. If you would like to become a donor and see your name here, email chris@talbot-heindl.com and make your pledge. acquaintences of the bitchin’ kitsch ($1-10) - Colin Bares, Casey Bernardo, Teri Edlebeck, Stephanie Jones, Eric Krszjzaniek, Dana Lawson, Jason Loeffler, Justin Olszewski friends of the bitchin’ kitsch ($11-50) - Charles Richard, Kenneth Spalding, Tallulah West lovers of the bitchin’ kitsch ($51-100) - Scott Cook, Keith Talbot partners of the bitchin’ kitsch ($101-1,000) - Felix Gardner, Jan Haskell parents of the bitchin’ kitsch ($1,001-10,000) - none yet, become a parent! demi-gods of the bitchin’ kitsch ($10,001 & up) - The Talbot-Heindl’s




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Double Exposure Danielle Kvatek Photograph

Profile for Chris Talbot-Heindl

The Bitchin' Kitsch January 2015 Issue  

The Bitchin' Kitsch is a zine for artist, poets, prose writers, or anyone else who has something to say. It exists for the purpose of open c...

The Bitchin' Kitsch January 2015 Issue  

The Bitchin' Kitsch is a zine for artist, poets, prose writers, or anyone else who has something to say. It exists for the purpose of open c...