Zines

Give me one good reason why not?

Dossier Magazine, Issue Two.

So according to my sources, which are the same as anybody elses who bothers to check the Dossier website, the second issue of Dossier Journal should be out any day now.

Please check it out if you can, as it's actually really pretty awesome: great photography, interviews, and fiction. It should be in most decent magazine stores sometime soon...

I'm not sure the exact release date, but I'll let you know as soon as I do. Here's a sample of what's inside:



Hopefully I'll manage an upgrade from random internet shit, to actual random in-print shit for an issue or two later down the line. Stranger things have happened.

House Arrest

So for the most part, aside from taxis to and from work, and a one off movie showing, I've not really left the house for approaching 3 weeks now. I mean I've hopped to dinner once, helped with laundry, and been to get stuff from the deli a couple of times, but to be honest nothing's that exciting on crutches.

Anyway post-debate on Friday, we ventured an extra block to the little deli that sells a decent selection of magazines.

Literally 2 minutes from our house. And there on the bottom shelf almost hidden from view: 3 copies of the aforementioned Apartamento Magazine. Issue One.

I like my neighborhood a lot, and I like tiny one in a million chances even more.

They had a sticker on the front declaring it was $25, but a sneaky peel-away later and I discovered the selling price was actually listed on the front of the magazine as $15. One-Zero, to Me.

Anyway, it's great and I'm glad I managed to pick up a copy before issue two arrives next month.

Speaking of issue two's arriving next month...

Apartamento Magazine

What's with me, and finding out about things too late?

Issue One is apparently sold out everywhere in the world, and wasn't even available in the US in the first place. Bullshit. Anyway, Issue Two is supposedly out next month and will be available over here, which would be fine if it wasn't for the fact that I'm a nosey fucker and would quite like to take a look around Mike Mills' apartment... in print form anyway...






If someone finds a copy, buy it for me. Thanks.

EDIT: FOUND IT!

Strange Coincidences.

I talked about SEDE Magazine before, and I've been lucky enough this week to have sent a few emails back and forth with the creator Juan. He's an awesome guy from Argentina, not only putting out a great print magazine, but now also MOLDE, an online arts newspaper of sorts, published three times a month on the 10th, 20th and 30th. The only problem being you're going to need to be speaking spanish to read any of it.

A little investigation further, and I discover Juan also knows his way around a pencil:





I'll hopefully be helping out with a few things out of New York, so I'll try to keep any of that posted up on here too. Finally the internet is winning.

How I Feel. A little.

Things I Have Learnt...

... from walking around using crutches in New York, for the last couple of weeks:

1. People, for the most part, don't get out of your way.
2. Nor do they hold doors for you.
3. But they will push past you in a rush.
4. And they will stare at your foot as they pass you. Like they've never seen a bandaged up foot before.
5. People will not allow you to pass by them any easier than when you had two perfectly in service legs, and a bad attitude problem.
6. People are fucking assholes.
7. Especially women.
8. And old people.

I think I'll try to be a slightly better person when it comes to street etiquette when I'm done with all this hopping around.

Don't Ask Me Because I Probably Don't Know. Part Two.

L'anniversaire.

Three years ago we got off planes from long haul flights, if long means over seven hours, and waited around in strange arrival lounges. Feeling nervous. Three years ago we sat on suitcases and tested out whether our cellular telephones, that we still called mobile phones worked in foreign countries. We rushed between terminals with friends, sleepy from nights spent tidying up our rooms and wore sunglasses, and shifted our feet anxiously when we spoke. Three years ago we took Polaroid’s that spelt out our names to use as arrival signs, but we were late, and in the wrong place, so we just had to explain it later. We took new Polaroid’s to compensate.

Three years ago we sat three in the back of a Yellow cab that stopped on the way into town to get gas. Which was the first and only time this had ever happened to us. Three years ago we asked if this was normal, while watching the Indian gentleman fill the tank and wonder off to pay. We drove past famous landmarks we knew from videos back home, and we laughed at the strange road signs and the constant stream of traffic ahead of us.

Later when we had stumbled out of cabs, wearing white t-shirts and blue jeans and jetlag, we went inside to a building we’d never been in together, and left our belongings on the futon while poking our noses in places they did not- yet- belong. We talked about the bong on the coffee table, and how it was none of ours. Hurriedly, and walking closer together than was normal for most people, we went to a restaurant that had a strange cow theme. There were pictures of cows on the wall, and in the bathroom, and when we ordered food we ordered pancakes with bacon because it only seemed appropriate. Our legs were starting to ache, and when one of us went to the bathroom, the others did something brand new, that had never been done before, probably by anyone, anywhere ever. Three years ago all our awkwardness was replaced with a feeling of calm, and suddenly we knew what we were doing. At least in regards to each other, in the restaurant with the cows and the maple syrup and the rude waiter, who would later get an elaborate forearm tattoo, that would completely change how were thought of him, although he was still – always- rude.

Three years ago we paid our bill with money from a board game that the man at the airport on the other side of the long haul flight had given us, and went back to the house. We went through our bags for a minute, and sat around in the cool, and talked about what we might do next. We were excited because the city was brand new, the tags were still on our necks, and we’d held hands, a strangely normal moment, on the way back from the restaurant.

Our throats hurt, and we had no idea really why. But we thought about the day outside, and the sun in September and the heavy pockets, and we took the train into the city, making note of things we’d seen before, but only in pictures. We met more people and took them with us to a movie based on a book we loved, but didn’t, but had never heard of, but didn’t care about, and while hating it from the very start promptly fell asleep about half way through.

For the first time in the history of everything we left a movie before the end, and went back outside. We left some of us to our own devices, to make plans to meet up later, and went to meet others somewhere else.

Three years ago, back at the same apartment our clothes were, we lay around, and listened to people getting home from work, and talked about how excited we were and laughed nervously. We met other people, and were polite. We hoped. Later we went out to see a band play in a store, in a part of town we’d never been to before, because we’d only ever been into town once before, and that was earlier today, and we watched the band we’d never heard before in the store we’d never been to, and drank beer, and left early, and said goodbye, and walked together up town, along the edges, next to the free way and the water, and it took forever, and neither of us remember how it was we got home. But our throats hurt, and our eyes were sore, and the bed we lay in was the most comfortable a bed had ever been. And three years ago in the morning there would be another breakfast, and we would buy new things, and we would awkwardly dance, and we would wonder to both ourselves and to anyone else who would listen on the telephone: did we really make this happen?

As Previously Mentioned

Don't Ask Me, Because I Probably Don't Know. Part One.

Ratty

I'm a visual pack rat. I see stuff I like- photos, drawings, words, a table, a pair of shoes - and I steal it (on the internet of course) because I know that one day I'll need it. I'll want it and I'll want to find it. This is the same reasoning behind the piles of magazines, and books we have accumilated over shorter, more middle, and longer pieces of time. And then the internet went and got itself invented (although really that happened long before all this anyway), and now I have an I-Photo full of random images I like, for some reason or another.

A few I know who took them, a couple I can remember where I got them from, a few I know who is in them, but for the most part they're random photos, and drawings I just liked enough to save someplace.

I've never put any of that up here, or anywhere else, for fear of having people emailing away complaining that I'd stolen their work, or put it out without consent or credit. Plus I'd feel kind of stupid for putting up stuff I myself have no idea where it originated from.

But the last few days have got me thinking, that there's some kind of worth in all that. Maybe. An online scrap book, or box of photos under the bed or something. We'll see, this fucker is running pretty low while I wait to get some films back, or finish up some writing stuff I've been procrastinating over since around the dawn of time.

Le Beau Flaneur

If you're a lady, or a dude that is into ladies, and/or likes ladies clothes, and/or awesome photos, or you just want to perv a bit, or you want to have something else awesome to look at, or maybe because your job sucks and you're bored, or you just like being on the internet looking at stuff, please go to:

Le Beau Flaneur

My lady has joined the Blog world. Who doesn't hate that word?

Marcelo Gomez.

Is the shit. This guy's stuff is so good, I want a huge print to put up in the house.

Sea Legs

We’ve been swimming for hours, but only up to our necks. Our feet still graze the sand and the baby jellyfish that we’re pretending not to see. We spotted them right away, heaving beneath the tide: bright red and dangerous.

We’re ignoring them the best we can and catching shells between our toes. Sophia’s head is bobbing afloat beside my own, her hair is plastered against her forehead, her ears sticking out much further than usual; we know that it’s impossible to look alluring with wet hair, but we’re trying as hard as we can. She dips below a wave, her hand clamping her nose. I do the same a second later as I am slightly closer inland than her. I don’t cover my nose though, I just don’t inhale, or not for a minute at least. We’re both below the waterline now, our bodies sinking a few feet; legs pushed out in front of us, already in sitting positions; we sink to the sand and plant our hands by our sides, digging our black nails into the sand; steadying ourselves.

We open our eyes, foolishly, and look at each other for a second, we smile, and then I can tell she’s about to laugh, and I shake my head, and she laughs anyway, and the water goes in, and her face thrashes for a second, and she’s full of salt, and dirt, and plankton that no one can see, and she kicks against the seabed and shoots back up to the surface. I am sure gasping for air. I wait, count to ten, and then kick my legs and push upward. Only a meter or so. And I’m there beside her, pushing my hair from my eyes, back behind my head, over my ears, and wiping my face, and looking at her.

“Fuck”

“I’ve told you a million times not to laugh”

“I know but,”

And she spits out salt water, pulls seaweed from the strap of her bathing suit. I’ve not seen her spit before, and am a little shocked with how well she sends the liquid flying from her mouth. A good distance. She makes it look easy, no dribble, or restraint; a glob of salt and sand that flies several feet away from us with a plunk as it hits the water. The kind of thing you only learn from older brothers and years of practice. She fascinates me a little more each day. I am collecting my observations of her, on this trip, in a bucket made for making castles, under my bed in the room we are sharing at the beach house. The white sided-walk through the garden-and trees-and weeds-and undergrowth-and dunes-to the beach-beach house.

I watch as she picks something from her ear, examines what it might be, and then washes it away in the surf. She moves closer to the shore, closer to me. I’ve let the waves take me back in a little; the water now barely covers my thighs if I stand. We sit together, side-by-side, the water at our necks, staring out to the late afternoon horizon. We’re watching the waves, straining our faces, our lips pushing- just- above the water.

“Lay back when the water comes. Lie flat and watch it go over you”

As the wave breaks just in front, she slides backward, lays her hair in the sand and the wave washes over her body. I can see her beneath, only an inch or so of water above her, her eyes tightly shut, her lips in a concentrated smile. We’re both a little sunburned and her body looks bright pink in the green of the ocean.

I’m not looking and the next wave hits me in the side of the head. I feel the water soak through my skin, I feel it in my muscle, and my tendons, and the gaps between my capillaries. I start to lean back, ready for the next one. My head just above the surface. It comes and I lay back, and the cloud of white blows past me like a tiny hurricane on it’s way to making land. My hand bumps hers. We’re both in total darkness, eyes sore from all the salt water. We never think to bring the goggles from the house. My fingers clench at the knuckle, and I lift my head, slowly, from the water.



Later that night in the house my grandparents own, she sits on the floor her legs stretched across the wood, staring at the edges of the rug, twisting the fringe with her fingers; the black polish chipping away from the salt and the sun, and the bath she took when we got back from the beach. She pulls at a rough cuticle with her other hand, and blows a whistle through the gap in her teeth. I’m sitting on the bed, my hair curly from the days spent in the sea, and the evenings trying to wash those same oceans out again. My own hands flicking through a magazine I bought at store in town, while our parents bought supplies from the grocery, and looked at each other inappropriately.

We’ve spent most of our time at the beach or in this room, only leaving one or the other for a meal- breakfast on the porch, a dinner at a restaurant in town, a midnight raid of the overstocked refrigerator- or to look at the boys come in off the boats at dusk; me sheepishly rolling my arms against my hips, her sitting out on the dock, her heels in the dark water, blowing out the cigarette smoke from the same gap in her teeth she whistles through now. Her eyes fierce with the fire of days spent restless in the water, shouting down the back-slaps and laughter of the men coming in for the night. Hushed like children into silence as they pass her up to their cars, parked in lines on the hill; their eyes fixed on her pink legs, her mountain range of collarbone, the smoke filling the early evening sky.

Some of the boys coming off the fishing boats with their fathers are only a few years older than us. Some of them similar to the boys back home, who might take us out in their fathers cars once in a while, for pancakes at the Twenty-Four hour diner we’re not supposed to go to, or to the bar by the railway, that doesn’t turn away underage drinkers, and has a back-room with a pool table, and a jukebox that no one ever plays. These are the boys that I smile at, that I lift my head to; that I think about sometimes. She pays them no mind, flat out ignores their heads turning, and stares past them to catch their fathers, their uncles. Pushing her hair back behind one ear, curling it a little with her finger and thumb, and breaking their gaze with her own. She reminds them of lives lived years ago. Of the reasons they have sons, or nephews in the first place. They feel irritated by her presence on the dock, she makes them uneasy, and guilty of something. They have no words to even really explain, let alone understand. The sons and nephews walk by, no one offers either of us a ride home, no one asks us what we’re doing, or whether we’re hungry. She’s a flare that burns up brightly in each of their eyes, that explodes in a flash of pure white, and leaves us invisible, on the dock, under the reddening sky.

Weird

Mine:



Not Mine:



This has never really happened to me before. At least to this extent.

It's strange. I guess same day, different person walking around with a camera. The only thing that's weird is that I guarantee you'll see a lot more of his than mine.

ALAIN LEVITT.

From whatever THIS is. Scroll down. Keep scrolling.

A E I O U

So I guess I'll be killing it on the blog front for the next few days at least. Getting the PARTY STARTED.







DEAN SULLIVAN.

Two Known Photographs

One

SEDE

I discovered a new book/magazine at St Marks last night. SEDE is an awesome little art/photography/interview book from Argentina. It fits in your pocket, is only 5 bucks, and is entirely in Spanish.

Luckily for us uneducated chumps, they're also kind enough to have it come with a mini booklet with all the interviews in English too. Awesome.

Go buy it. They have a bunch of issues in stock right now. I'm broke until forever, so only picked up one- featuring none other than my favourite dude ever MARK BORTHWICK.

Check out a bunch of his stuff HERE too.

End of Trip

Getting Free.

Hurt Feelings.