ou est tristan tzara
when i was an artist i would write poems about soap operas and dead dadaists and translate them into french using google translate and make recordings of me reading them — this was when it was still a novelty to be able to instantly translate things using the internets.
and/or i would get off the plane from wagga wagga in paris not that it flew directly there and go to the cimitiere de montparnasse enquiries window where there was a piece of paper stuck on the window on which was written JIM MORRISON IS NOT HERE HE IS IN THE PERE LACHAISE and say : ou est tristan tzara? but they ne savaient pas where he was.
better be careful what you put out there. some fucker is collecting it and then donating their collection to some library when they get sick of carting it around. even i don't have a complete set of my half-arse zines. but when i discovered that the national library of australia does and has duly catalogued them, i got a laugh out of it. sadly there is no visual of the cover which, as you'll recall (or not), is a picture of an arse spread over the front and back cover so that, when folded down the middle, it serves as a literal illustration of the title.