Wednesday, May 26, 2010

Zine Reviews!



It's time for some good old fashioned zine reviews!  This is my first one (so please go easy on my tender ego).  Reviews are something I feel guilty for not putting in my zine.  I don't have a good excuse for not putting it in there so I won't bother you with any.  Anyhow, please check out these awesome zines and the distros they can be found at (links at the bottom).  These zines aren't exactly new, but I love them so I thought I'd share them with you.  Anyway...to the reviews!


Letters to Wassily
 I may hold this zine dear more than any other. It may only be the strange personal coincidences but it effected a very familar amalgam of emotions. I typed out all of the coincidences, realized that they’d only be interesting to me, and deleted it. So on to the ‘emotions’ portion. Letters to Wassily is made by Shae, an awesome zinester out of Florida. Shae describes this zine in part as “Vignettes about my past, two fictional interviews with my dead Romanian poet lover, dream symbols & other various nothings”. Though it sounds all over the place, the zine is actually very cohesive like the same color in different mediums. You’d be hard pressed to say what the zine is ‘about’, however the mood is a definite one. Give this zine some time when your heart is slow, and you’ll pull out healthy amount (if there is such an amount) of catharis. I promise. You can pick it up at the Black Light Diner Distro. 


Map of Fog
This isn’t Tony Bennet’s San Francisco. If you left your heart in this zine’s San Francisco, it was literally. Map of Fog is disturbing in a way that is good for your character. The first article that really shook me was “Jumper at the Hyatt” which is probably what you think its about. He writes in a way that isn’t overly gritty or sentimental. It makes the story very easy to see. The second is “Lead to Gold” - an interview retelling a stabbing in Mexico.  It's the near casualness of the telling that makes it frighteningly real in a way melodrama never could.  I'll let the rest of the zine surprise you.  It'll have you pausing and thinking.  I picked it up from Parcell Press.  





Check out these cool distros for seriously cheap and seriously independent reading.  These are a few I like to visit:


www.parcellpress.com
www.blacklightdiner.com
www.false-start.com
www.thingsyousaydistro.com




what I listened to while typing: Joanna Newsom - Bridges and Baloons





Tuesday, May 18, 2010

The Evil of Cute

"You're so cute, I could just eat you!"  Thank God they never did.  What is it about cuteness, though, that inspires threats of pinching, twisting, squeezing, and biting?  In short, why does cuteness foment violence?
We can begin by agreeing that these violent impulses are not consciously thought about, rationalized, or planned out.  Rather, they are automatic and sub/unconscious, akin to laughing or blushing (albeit, much more sinister).  So where do they come from?  Let's briefly turn to them kooky psychoanalysts: Freud & and friends.
You may reply to this by saying: "Hey!  I ain't no mother-lovin' psycho because I pinch when I baby talk".  Not so fast, crazy.  Freud said that pain inflicted and received in love is sadomasochism.  To paraphrase: Freud believed that sadomasochists inflict pain on others to express love.
So why does Auntie S&M get pleasure out of expressing her love by inflicting pain on me?  Well, according to Freud, sex is naturally rough stuff.   Sadism is that sexual aggression that's gotten out of hand.  If you you're familiar with good ol' Sigmund you've probably noticed that love and violence go hand in hand for him.  Sadism is when the violent part starts flying off the handle.
Since I could go on for much longer than good taste will allow I'm going to end it here.  Am I serious about all of this baby-talk-pinchy-squeezey-s&m?  I don't remember. However, it does get me thinking.
We may not all have OCD but we all have some obsessive compulsions.  We may not be schizophrenic, but a good self-esteem requires some delusions.  We may not all be into S&M bondage, but at times we may mistake our aggression for affection.
It becomes clear that there are not two distinct groups of "crazy" and "sane".  Rather, there is a mental health continuum and we all dot it from one end to the other.  Where does the crazy start and sane end?  I hope not at the whim of social caprice...but I am pessimistic.  

What I listened to while typing: Flying Lotus - Nose Art

Wednesday, May 12, 2010

Splice


Nothing, nothing, nothing (the kind of the nothing that exists out from under the blanket of the universe) followed by four, seven, nine, six, four, eight, three. I was in the middle of mouthing the phone number written on my chest.

Several years later, while traipsing the aisles of a Whole Foods with my wife, I realized I had been sleepwalking. I still don't know how I overlooked the gaping memory blind spot of how I ended up standing naked in front of a mirror in a friend's dark bathroom for so long. When I woke up, my eyes were already focused on the digits clearly written over my heart, my lips were in the middle of forming the numbers.

I quickly scanned through the events of the night, slowing at the highlights that would become long term memories.

The girls skipping down the brick street.
A waiter dancing on the table.
A misunderstanding with a taxi driver.

The number on my chest in the mirror wasn't in my handwriting. It was written in a deep black with beautiful curves and dangerous angles.

Dancing in a Chinatown basement.
Southern Comfort.
Rain.
I walked her home.
The ballpoint tickling my palm.

I looked at the number on my chest in the mirror. I could read it. I looked down at my chest. The number was backwards. I looked at my right palm.

I placed my hand over my heart as if I were reciting a bizarre pledge of allegiance. The numbers fit perfectly. The alcohol induced sweat transferred the number from my hand to my heart.


What I listened to while typing:  Son House - Death Letter Blues/John the Revelator