Here it is, the first issue of the zine. It started as a vision, a vision to…..ok fuck that intro. This zine is anything you want it to be, it’s your zine. We, the creators of this zine, all strive to have fun with this shit. Let’s call this a way to organize our otherwise random thoughts and stories, the shit you here at 3am at the after-show party from the drunk guy that didn’t say a word the entire show. Maybe it will evolve from there, maybe it won’t. If you want to share some stories, or write a review or whatever, send us an email to email@example.com . We won’t deny an article because it doesn’t fit a certain genre or style of life. If you send us a piece of crap then we’ll tell you it’s a piece of crap and we won’t publish it, send us something better, but honestly, you'll soon find out that our standards are pretty low. Enjoy cutter
Cover art and most other graphics by Marc Wilhelm, find zine graphics and more at: www.freshaces.com
Sorry Chad by Tom Huntz (firstname.lastname@example.org) The first apartment I shared was by anyone’s standard, a complete and total shit-hole. To romanticize it, my friends who remember that place like to refer to the squalor as “punk rock”, but in reality it was the best accommodations we could arrange given our budget and eagerness to move out of the god forsaken suburbs. A friend and I shared the shotgun style two bedroom basement apartment on capital hill near Marion & 13th. We added character to the apartment that appealed to a certain post-apocalyptic aesthetic. The ornamentation reflected our appreciation for local and global underground culture and at our house warming party, Denver’s finest showed up and to help “celebrate” our arrival by arresting several members of our favorite band. Our place became a scene to be seen in. It featured a stoop convenient for smoking and meeting new people. Evenings presented a wide range of characters popping in and out of Gabor’s and Cricket on the Hill. This charming subterranean abode featured many fine amenities including; a quaint hole in the floor that you could peer through to see the raw earth beneath and a back staircase that was at roughly a 32 degree tilt sideways along with the fact that it was missing 3 or 4 steps scattered near the middle. This basement apartment entrance was more like an an ancient tomb entrance with pitfalls. I had memorized these to the point where I could navigate them in the dark, those following me usually couldn’t. I had to abandon several would-be guests who fell and were impaled by spikes. There were spiders, rats and false floors but no more poison darts, it seems those had all been triggered by the former junkie tenants. The apartment included an urban medley of preloaded, ever-regenerating pets including rats, mice and cockroaches but by far the most impressive feature of this sorry excuse for shelter was the bathroom. It is beyond belief to all who witnessed it’s horror firsthand. Anyone who saw this bathroom was astonished and repulsed, if you went in and smelled it chances are good that you threw up. People who visited and were brave enough to actually use our shower almost all have had to “block out” the episode from their minds. I myself only have recently managed to recall details of the shower during an impromptu session of regression therapy with my sexy witch therapist. One night I laid down on her couch as she hovered over me and swaying her tattooed boobs in my face. I began to be lulled into a stimulating but deep sleep and the recollection of the shower in the rathole apartment began to emerge, nearly as traumatizing as the original experience. The vision consisted of an unfinished shower stall, only a concrete vault where the bath lining installation should have been. It had an air of “concentration camp shower” conjuring images of sunken cheeks and hollow eye sockets. No drain, only a moldy hole for the water to run down, and a trash bag for a shower curtain. I suddenly remembered everything. Most days alone living at the rat-hole I would chain smoke and nip at cheap scotch as I’d pound away page after page on my typewriter thinking I was channeling Bukowski. Other times I’d paint. Always though my CD player would almost constantly cough out jazz, punk or whatever fit the mood usually something SST or the like. People simply looking for adventure often wound up at our parties. Hanging out in the rat-hole apartment and downing cheep beer and scotch made people feel alive.
I think that professionals from many walks of life envied the freedom that my place represented. They were weekend warriors. Some of these people had lived their whole lives doing just what they thought their grandparents’ generation wanted them to do. Hanging out at our place was their way of getting a taste of some foreign culture they had once avoided all in one tidy night of debauchery and stimulating conversation. Predictably the apartment drew “wild girls” with piercings, cutting habits and heavy eye make-up but more often than not, the girls that were knocking down our door were repressed young urban professionals. These mainstream girls were often quite aggressive in their pursuit of fun. From nowhere a flirty blonde paralegal would get you alone in the kitchen, slam you against the cabinetry, and stick her tongue in your mouth while grinding against you. Other times they’d be less subtle. Her best friend would pass along semi-erotic messages to you, attempting to hatch a scheme. Her boyfriend Chad would inevitably come looking for her and the games would begin. This sort of thing happened frequently, it is just how it was. Weekends were crazy and on weekdays “after work”, the games usually continued. Admins, CPAs, paralegals, RNs and elementary school teachers were consistently returning to the rat-hole apartment to extend their “happyhour.” This phenomenon began to take on a pattern though. We observed that many of these people were not really there. They were merely semipresent, acting out some repressed aspect of their personality and you and your home was their fantasy play-set. You and your reality is not their reality. Somehow they are using you to live out desires that they are either unable or unwilling to express during their everyday lives. It’s surprising at first when they take things too far by throwing beer bottles at cops from your stoop or try to burn down your living room or even just make a gaffe that reveals their insulated ignorance. Then you realize they are simply on holiday from reality. Left unchecked these strangers can be soul sucking because you are not a person to them, you and your life have become their fetish. When you kick them out, they simply hail a cab back to the Highlands or Centennial and you get to deal with the consequences. You provide an escape for them and are mere ornamentation. Be wary of the poseurs, but feel free to drink their beer and kiss their girlfriends.
The Beach House By: Rob Clark 1993. I was twenty-two and I wanted to see California, meet new people, and hopefully find a way out of a crippling depression. Chasing that dream, my best friend, Stacey and I drove cross-country from our homes in Virginia to California to join a household of Christian Rock and Rollers and attend a Rock and Roll Church. The morning of our arrival, it is late September, and the air is cool. Stacy and I stand outside the building that will soon become our home. I have mixed feelings. I didn’t know what to expect to find, but this was certainly not it. This is an odd structure, in no way new, and definitely not what I had imagined I would encounter in California. An old hand painted sign out front says Franru Travel in black letters. The cinder block walls along the side of the building are baby blue and dotted with bright pastel airplanes and cruise ships. A beat-up wooden structure squats on the top and front of the two-story building, looking like someone built walls around an open air patio. Our new roommates live in the apartment upstairs. The white walls of the stairs leading up to the apartment above have been covered with Christian rock slogans, cartoons, and people’s signatures in magic marker. At the top of the landing is a dark wooden bookcase filled with Christian books, Bibles, and study guides. A planter forms a wall above the stairs, with some kind of creeping plant growing inside and down over the wall. I turn right and find a cheap dining room table and chairs, a black sectional couch, a Sony stereo, and a rack of tapes on an entertainment center. Various pieces of cheap wicker furniture finish the room. The southeast wall of the living room looks like the entrance to a greenhouse. Big plate glass windows line the top of the wall, folding out like vents. The center of this wall is dominated by two glass doors trimmed in painted white wood. Inside the windows are curtains and towels, hung for privacy. To the left and next to the bookcase is a wooden door leading to the kitchen. The kitchen is also surprisingly old, partially furnished in old ugly yellow tiles. There are cabinets made of old stained and dented wood with black handles, creating the impression of a Fifties nightmare. A door in the kitchen leads to a set of stairs and a patio over which the roof has been extended. At the top of the landing is a ladder leading from the stairs to a hole in the roof. The ladder doesn’t look very safe. It has been lashed and tied to the railing of the landing with rope. The hallway next to the kitchen leads to the bathroom, which is furnished in a lime green tiling, as well as one huge bedroom and two smaller connected rooms that lead to the back of the house. These rooms have huge windows that overlook the street below and Catholic Church across the street. The glass doors in the living room lead to two more rooms; one of the rooms has a stone and mortar floor, plywood roof, and large windows, a few of which
have been half-heartedly covered with window tinting. A mattress and box springs with no sheets lie on the stone floor. There are also a couple of long “shelves”, in reality nothing more than a few sagging boards nailed together and painted an ugly brown; a guitar case and amplifier; a four-track mixer; some cushions of unknown origin; tool boxes; tapes; suitcases; clothes; a few more crappy wicker shelves; and a sectional loveseat covered with yellow corduroy. A skylight dominates one corner of the room. The floor of the room is gritty and dirty. The room smells musty and faintly of incense. This will be my room.
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Reviews by Robot
Sunday, Sunday SUUUUUNDAY! OK, so we all know how fast the weekend flies by yet we try and cram as much fun into it as possible. Then by the time Sunday night rolls around all you want to do is get some much needed sleep and mentally prepare yourself for whatever the fuck it is that you do for the next five days. The last thing anybody would want to do on a Sunday night is go out drinking at a punk show right? If you answered yes to that last question you can punch yourself in the face cause you are just plain fucking WRONG stupid! We can now look forward to this otherwise dull evening ever since 43rd Street Zoo has been putting on Punk Rock Sunday every Sunday night at the Lion’s Lair on East Colfax. You would think that a show like this would be two people and a band, the bartender and the sound guy being the two people, but you would be wrong again Einstein! These shows have continually packed the house with only a three dollar cover and some very quality entertainment. With the lovely and talented Brandy behind the bar you can certainly get your drink on with plenty of Old Style and PBR on tap. And for those of us who care nothing for nutrition and hygiene, free hot dogs are served all night long. Back in the day the only night of the week they could have shows at the Lion’s Lair was on Sunday. And they called it Punk Rock Sunday! So the tradition continues at last because people realize that getting drunk and listening to really loud punk music can actually relieve the stress of the work week and cure cancer. So now that it’s a medical fact I see no reason to dismiss this weekly event. Bands that have played include but are not limited to..... The Varmits, Captain Blood, Truckasaurus, The Insomniaxe, Love Bullet, Hand Cannon, Damage Control, Crash!, Sons of Disobedience, Onemanna and her yeast infection...yuk!, Tone Deficit and many more. Punk Rock Sunday is more fun for your three bucks then anything else I can think of that costs three bucks. So if you ask me, and lots of important people do, I would say that it’s not only a good idea to show up every week, it’s the best thing you could ever do for yourself.
Not every Sunday is Punk Rock so before you put on your Docs and stinky leather jacket check the band listings at www.myspace.com/43rdstreetzoo I am the Robot....and I will destroy.....
f f o k r e The j List
The Ten Worst Things About Going To Shows 1. You see the same attention starved assholes all the time 2. Ringing ears = lost hearing 3. Drunken assholes in the pit 4. Expensive beer 5. Expensive cover charges 6. Expensive food 7. Canâ€™t smoke 8. Homeless people trying to bum smokes and change while youâ€™re smoking outdoors 9. Driving drunk 10. Going to work hung-over
What’s the Matter with the cuTter Wealthy these Days? They say you learn something new every day. Well I learn something ridiculous about the rich on daily basis. I talk to rich assholes from Texas every day at my dead-end customer service job. The best one liner I’ve ever heard is “What are my kids to do without our TV working?” That’s right, Dr. Jones’ satellite dish was removed when he was getting the roof on his 3 million dollar home reshingled, and he’s pissed off that I can’t send a service tech out until Tomorrow. I’ve got a suggestion, read a fucking book to them! Disney pretty much ruined that. Why read Alice in Wonderland when it’s so convenient and colorful on the special edition Blu-Ray disc? What a beautiful 1080p high definition picture it is. I guess when all else fails, Dr. Jones, your children can always just pop in the latest edition of Rock Band on their XBOX while waiting a whole day for the TV to be fixed. Fuck you Dr. Jones. cutter