The Fan Man Read Online Free PDF Page A

to the ethereal regions of your fourth floor pad, where you will, in your capacity as Avatar of Song, screw them puce.
    “Good evening, Horse,” says the priest, inside the door.
    “Good evening, Father.”
    “All of the chorus is here, and I think I see some new faces.”
    “Yes, Father, I have been out recruiting more chicks and circulating leaflets in great number announcing the concert.”
    The Super Hot Dog Mission of Horse Badorties, man, is slowly taking shape. For an entire year, man, I have held the Love Chorus together, dragging the valuable precious contents of my body here every night for rehearsal, and now, man, we are almost ready for our first performance. All we need is twenty-five fans, and I have ordered them, man, they are on the way.
    Up the aisle, man, and up the stairs to the balcony where the Love Chorus is assembled–fifteen-year-old chicks, man, whom I have trained to sing the old church music, little known to the world, never heard in modern churches, but which I have uncovered from old vaults, locked drawers, and secret hiding places of old tombs. Most church music, man, is enough to make me ill, man, make me shriek and feel awful, depressed rotten and piled-up with gloom, so lousy is it, man, so corny and terrible, written by old ladies and sung by zombies. But this church music, man, which I have found, is the white bird of reality, man, written by old cats in the Middle Ages, man, who were locked into wondrous harmonies, man, which make my hair stand on end, and that is why my hair is always sticking out in ninety different directions.
    “Good evening, everyone.”
    All the good little chiclets say
Good Evening, Horse
.
    “I have a special announcement. Here in my hand you see a battery-powered fan, which makes a constant humming note, a drone around which we will all sing, strengthening our chords and opening our inner ear. I have ordered a fan for each of you, and we will sing, holding them in our hands. Nothing like it has ever been done before. All right, let us begin.”
    “But I don’t know how to read music!” A new chick, just joined the Love Chorus tonight.
    “Dig, baby, the notes are in your soul. Just hold this sheet music in your hand and pretty soon you’ll find your way. All right, Love Chorus, places, please. From the beginning, one, two… .”
    And we are into the music again. The new chick is spaced out, man, does not believe she can read music, but soon, man, soon the stream will carry her away, and she will dig that she knows exactly where the music is going because it couldn’t go anywhere else. Dive in, baby, you wouldn’t be here tonight if you didn’t already know all about music. She’s here, man, in the broken-down church in the fucked-up East Village because her soul said, go. The soul knows, man, and old Maestro Horse Badorties goes straight to the soul every time. It’s no good, man, trying to teach music, the only way is to push the chick right into her soul-stream, man, where she’ll learn immediately.
    She’s opening her mouth, man, she is making a musical note, there she is, man, I can see it lighting up her face. Instant recognition:
I know this music
. Smile. Spontaneous rapture of childhood recaptured. Another member of the Love Chorus has just been reborn, man. The ear hears, the heart knows, the voice sings out. You don’t need music school, baby, you’ve got it made.

    Maestro Badorties keeps the Love Chorus together, man, in supreme polyphonic harmony. This music, man, is from the angel of radiant joy in the central realm of the densely-packed, and when it is done right, it elevates my hot dog soul to the region of ecstasy. And it will sound a thousand times better, man, when everyone has a fan.
    “Very good, that was terrible, the worst singing I ever heard except for one of two moments which were magnificent beyond belief. We will all meet again tomorrow night. Should for any reason I be retained, derailed, or deported, you all know