SUPERMILK, (like Gandalf), is known by many names. At eight, he had his friends calling his house and asking for him as "Jazz," and this convinced him that he could play himself like a smooth, brass, orchestra. He has not yet been proven wrong.

While it is true that in his real grown-up life, he is a book-writer, and has read and been featured in the finest Manhattan indie bookstores, he prefers to be known here only as the humble Mister Milkus, or if you like, Señor Leche.

There are many who come to this collection of writings and strive to understand or explain the downright jovial lack of squeamishness exhibited; the casual discussion of friendly, personable genitalia; the marzipan upholstery, the images of rubber-hammers in a field of warm-butter bumblebees; the fevered, high-decible and quite celebrated ass-wiping tournaments, the orgiastic bake-offs—the unabashed celebration of just about everything disgusting, perverse, and embarrassing you could possibly hope to avoid discussing in public.

These people attempt to excuse the SUPERMILK style and content with the fact that our dear Mister Milkus was born in 1969, and grew up surrounded by much counter-culture language, attitude, and media. They compare his communal living arrangements and being brought up by "Hippies," as comparable to being "raised by Anti-American wolves." But these lupinaphobic and slavish know-it-alls simply cannot account for a mind unfettered by the many learned restrictions, false paradigms and poisonous prescriptions of society, nor can they idenitify the self-loathing that has been visited upon their own hyper- and hypocritical ganglia.

These same critics may justify SUPERMILK's refusal to follow mainstream consensus on what is proper and what is funny with the idea that as a young child, his favorite comics were not Superman, or Batman—they were Zap Comix, Mr. Natural, Fabulous Furry Freak Brothers, Fritz the Cat, and everything else that you would be terrified to show your family, or even be associated with by means of credit card receipt.

But SUPERMILK ( or "Shazam, Esq. if you must) most respectfully rejects these well-intentioned excuses and explanations of origin and influence. While he does not argue the truth of his familial origins or reading material, he is loathe to pass off his perverse inclinations, insights, and fixations so tidily. After all, he knows why you read what he writes. You're the one with the secret drawer, the greasy fingers, and the hushed-up dreams! You're the one who spends too much of your allowance on rubber chickens and x-ray glasses and multipurpose back-massagers! And you're the one who longs to see if you really are who you say, or if you're more of what you barely whisper.

So don't blame SUPERMILK for pulling up in the driveway with big, red, clown shoes and a bag stuffed full of pique—when you've been secretly praying for a size twelve ass-kicking! For, aside from all the names he has been called, we can safely assert that SUPERMILK is nothing more than the Santa of your very own Subconscious; the Pandora Bear you long to cuddle; the extra cup of sweet cream that may just catalyze your recipe and drive all your in-laws away for good.