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Actually doing something since 2005.

volume 06

issue 02

march 2011

twentieth issue


No loud music! Bad ass bloody mary bar Free beer ONLY with Texas ID

Sunday, March 20 • Doors at 3pm Killer patio, free shows every day, never a cover, coldest beer and best handsoap on the east side, no piñatas, no clowns. Home of the Second Sunday Sock Hop and the Summer Jortacular. Follow us on Twitter @ShangriLaAustin.

1016 East 6th St • Austin, Texas


dropped off at the brixton

email to the directors I’m starting a hot new website called StolenBikesForSale.com. It's going to be a place where I sell all the bikes I steal for cash or fat sacks of weed. In fact, I just got this sweet purple banger with those wide white rims. The bad news is that it doesn’t have brakes on it. The good news is that it has those cages for your feet so you can get dragged along the ground with your new bike when a car hits you for riding on the east side without lights or BRAKES! Anyway, I think it's going to be a pretty bitchin’ site and if you guys want to help out that’d be pretty rad. -Tim (Director's Response) How the fuck do you expect to sell a bike without brakes?

(Director's note: apparently it took homeboy two drafts to come up with a note this awesome.)


vol 06 issue 02 march 2011

SHITMYJORTS.COM

END LIVE MUSIC

directors

board of advisors

contact

Harvey Merrybottom

Kip Hollingsworth Mannhiem Wasselhoffer L. Fauntleroy Callahan O’Callahan Adolph Curmudgeon Abelard Fiddlebits Miss Theliz Jan Tschichold Yngwie Malmsteen

www.misprintmagazine.com hollaback@misprintmagazine.com

Director of Co-Conspiritories

Chadwick Pennyrich III

Director of Visual Arts & Languages

Bronx Wontgomery Director of Intern R&D

The views expressed here are strictly those of the authors, and do not represent the views of Misprint Magazine, which is kind of weird because the ideas of author and entity are actually entirely codependent of one another, but fuck it. This also applies to all our advertisements.

Send us your free shit! Misprint Magazine c/o The Side Bar (seriously) For inquiries, kudos, hate mail and the rest, e-mail Misprint at the above address.

email to the directors Dear Misprint, I'm a senior at the University of Texas at Austin and I need an internship asap. I got into this journalism field with a naïve assumption that I could still write about music, but it turns out I might as well have majored in PR. In any case, I will literally grab you coffee and do your dry cleaning for three months if it means you'll call it an internship so I can get class credit. I have to admit that I don't have major access to prescription medication, but I do love your magazine and I've been a fan for a while. I also have no problem being hated on by mediocre musicians in the community, so that's another plus. Please, give me a call soon. There's no phone number on your website so I can't call you excessively. -Iris

(Director's Response) Your heartfelt and impassioned offer of indentured servitude warmed the cockles of my cold heart. I’d like to imagine that I know the feeling of being a cub reporter, fresh faced and ready to change the world. Unfortunately, Misprint is even less of a "magazine" than your professor hopes it to be. The only things you could learn from us are a few hard-boiled lessons in depravity and ennui. Though the board of directors hasn't spent much time outside of our erotic daydreams defining the "Misprint Intern Experience" it would probably involve a more-than-healthly amount of regrettable one night stands with prostitutes of indeterminate gender and a whole lot of mezcal drinking with ex-cons. And though undoubtedly educational, I honestly couldn't ask an esteemed research institution like UT to pass that off as an academic experience.


A few words from the Directors...

Chadwick Pennyrich III

Harvey Merrybottom

It's finally that time of year again. The time when that dumb blind salamander starts stumbling around looking for a michelada. The time when all your bros get jacked up on steroids for their soul-wrenching cedar allergies or for their social league softball teams. The time when the bars return their patio heaters to the Home Depot and start peeling back their cloudy, tar-covered, wind-proofing tarps. The grueling weeks of forced hibernation are over, folks. It's time to make a frank assessment of our lives and the state of our glorious capital and to ask ourselves, "Do we like what we see?" Inevitably, on these rare occasions of introspection, the perpetual Never-Never Land and nonstop lotus-eating weighs heavily on Austin’s collective unconscious. Is our hedonistic pursuit of dank buds and more lavish brunch options standing in the way of what the grand experiment of Austin was always supposed to be? Is this city a utopia, a blueprint for a stronger, happier tomorrow where waking up, putting on a pair of pants and eating a taco counts as a legitimate, tweet-worthy accomplishment? Or is this brakeless train running off the rails towards a depraved world of Joosaritas and rampant Starfox larping? Whether you’ve noticed or not, (and we assume that you haven’t) Austin is at a turning point. We’re throwing jarts at a map and trying to decide if this beautiful mess of a town is going to gestate into a real city or degenerate into Mega-City One. I guess what I’m saying is that Austin doesn’t need a magazine like Misprint. But this is the magazine that Austin deserves. It’s a damn good thing we’re here to remind you that you might be part of the problem.

Bronx Wontgomery

Sincerely, fuck all y'all,

PS. Oh yeah, it's fucking sxsw. Bummer. Enjoy our special version of the heralded fighter pilot accessory, the blood chit. Since wwi, generations of downed airmen have relied upon them to survive in enemy territory and maybe get a free drink or two. Cut it out and keep it close.


Misprint Guide to Book Club Back in Austin’s golden age, living off of your girlfriend in a haze of crippling drug addiction wasn’t just acceptable, it was encouraged. Lately, though, it seems as if an entire generation of the young and beautiful suddenly realized that the last five years spent wearing neon sunglasses and dancing to terrible music was almost...a waste? Blame it on the nature of trends, but being a lazy asshole is somehow no longer aligned with anything that's cool. Maybe it’s just plain growing up, but people are seeking less overt but ostensibly more authentic ways of getting laid. The problem is, pedaling around on a fixed-gear and making lattes doesn't prepare you for this kind of playing field. Fortunately, there’s Book Club: the perfect opportunity to take those shaky first steps into an adult social setting and assuage the guilt of your ill-spent last decade. The Preface

Choosing a Book

The key to this entire experience is to remember that everyone involved doesn’t actually want to do anything or change their lifestyle, they just want to look like they do. There's a sense of urgency to feel smart (or at least non-illiterate) and to project a façade that would lead passing strangers to believe that you're not a completely fucked-up degenerate beardo. Wearing high tops and patriotic shortshorts doesn't mean you play for the '88 Harlem Globetrotters any more than sporting glasses and a Monocle tote bag means you just got tenure.

Your goal here is simple: maximize projected intelligence while minimizing actual effort. Like any product, brand name recognition goes a long way. So the dude who drops off his short stories at the Misprint Side Bar PO Box is off the list of potential authors. Also, don't set the bar too high– you can barely get through a copy of Misprint, so you'd be crazy to think you're smart enough to read Gravity's Rainbow. Anything by Hemingway is probably a safe bet. He pretty much covers the trifecta: bullfighting, being a bitter expatriate and breeding a herd of 6-toed cats. Nothing feels friendlier in the hand than a beat up copy of The Sun Also Rises, except maybe a glass of Bulleit or an elephant gun.

Club Members

Sorry, no English majors allowed. No exceptions! Anyone who blew sixty grand and four years of their life diagramming sentences and studying Victorian novels has no business in Book Club. Instead, think of Book Club as your own version of The Expendables. Or better yet, The Dirty Dozen, minus Charles Bronson, because he was actually sort of intelligent. Everyone else either had a beard or was a pervert, which probably describes just about everyone you know. If nothing else, just remember that there hasn't been a "social" gathering with as much rampant faux-intellectualism, alcohol abuse and excessive male genitalia since last year's marathon screening of The Cremaster Cycle. It's like your trivia team. Only way, way worse.

Other clubs I won't be joining: Bird Club Bear Club Beard Club

Pen Club

Yacht Club

The Part Where You Actually Read Something

This is actually the part where you don't read anything. You dropped out of college so you wouldn’t have to do this shit and you’re sure as fuck not going to start now. Fortunately for you, you're not expected to actually read any part of any book. Skim the synopsis on the internet if you must, or maybe just the bio (only if there's a picture taking up half the page). Book Club is just an excuse to conspicuously hoard a bunch of tables at a crowded bar, crush beers, hold a book and look really awkward. These are things you happen to be good at already. No self-improvement needed. h

Yellow Jacket Social Club

Spiderhouse Board Game Club


Fame and Fortune on East 6th Street A lot of column inches here and elsewhere have been devoted to Austin as a city in flux. But throughout it all, we’ve never lost sight of the common thread that holds it all together: the unrelenting, rambling, thrilling, pointless pursuit of alcohol. As this city recovers from hard times, it's impossible to ignore the explosion of new watering holes to slake the unquenchable thirst of legions of bros. It used to seem so simple: buy a shitty Tejano bar, raise all the prices and replace Los Tigres Del Norte in the jukebox with Black Flag. But it turns out that owning a bar isn’t all Jameson shots and high-fiving Bill Murray. The new realities of nightlife demand that the neck-tattooed punks somehow have to become actual businessmen. And it's not always pretty.

The Entered Apprentice

When you’re cleaning up broken glass and urine with a blood soaked bar towel, it's easy to dream of a better life, and ideally, a theoretical better bar. It’s every struggling barback’s ambition to cast off the shackles of indentured servitude at Beerland to realize their unique vision of what nightlife could be. Pie-in-the-sky idealism led to visions of novel bar concepts like working toilets, non-dirt floors and no live music, ever. But since your funding is coming exclusively from the tip jar, sacrifices must be made. So that squid tank in the floor might have to be cut. Also, it will be ironic if you keep all these original kitschy signs that are in Spanish. And there’s plenty of precedent for your patio just being a parking lot. These insecurities are a natural part of the process. There’s no shame in rushing to a soft-opening even if the paint is still wet and everyone has to wear a hard hat. If it starts to get you down, remember that the Liberty is still in business. The Ascended Apprentice

Owning a bar comes with the very real problems of clown bar crawls, stupid magazines with piñatas full of jorts, staying up all night with a BB gun doing drugs and making sure bums don’t shit on your patio, militant vegans stealing your beets, tabc enforcement via ed-209, Santa bar crawls, beard club meetings, feral drunks on feral horses, nun bar crawls, malicious elite Yelpers, people who try to bring their kids to bars, stupid magazines asking you for money, stupid clown gigolos handing out business cards with pictures of their

gross clown cocks and dudes making sculptures of their testicles out of petroleum jelly in the women’s port-o-potty. If, after all of this, you’re still in the mood for a beer, you might be ready. The Part With Inexplicable Penis Necklaces

You and your degenerate buddies weren’t the first to notice that everyone under forty in this town has a drinking problem. And when once-Mexican real estate and liquor licenses can be had for some trinkets and a handful of magic beans, it's not going to be long before some out-of-town nightclub impresarios try to turn East 6th Street into new south-northwest Dallas. The writing is on the walls, and the untucked dress shirts, glittery tops and screaming bachelorette parties have descended on what was supposed to be some kind of Red River for grown-ups. So instead of a bold new direction for nightlife, buying up Tejano bars is a little like buying little red houses in Monopoly. The Part Where You Actually Do Something

All joking aside, a little shake-up is exactly what we needed. Times of upheaval foster brilliant innovation; things like the printing press, the steam engine and the Rainy Day Special. So here at Misprint HQ we’re all for your sweet new furthereast bar. And once again, it would be hypocritical of us to actually suggest giving a shit. But even though each and every issue of Misprint is another insult to our readers' dignity, intelligence and self-worth, remember that your new spot doesn’t have to be! Thanks, and see you at happy hour! h


Misprint vs. The Historical Record Here at Misprint HQ, we’ve always tried our best to be the comprehensive archive of all the dumb crap that happens in this town. If Snake Plissken enters the World Code, a complete collection of Misprint back issues is a veritable Svalbard-style seed vault in case anyone wants to recreate Austin circa 2005-2010 (just add dudes and Lonestar). Unfortunately, you'll immediately wish you could forget most of the archive, not unlike that drill cock scene from Tetsuo: Iron Man. Who among us doesn’t fondly remember the abject horror of Krunkaoke at Tambaleo? Or any moment ever spent at Plush? Misprint hasn’t just been looking backwards; we’ve made our share of absurd predictions, too. Now, with the benefit of 20/20 hindsight, we give an honest assessment of some our boldest prognostications. Prediction

Outcome

Room 710 will soon close its doors forever due to the smoking ban. (The Smoking Issue, 2005).

Room 710 died a lingering, feeble, whimpering death from terminal shittiness. (2009)

An epic battle between Emo’s bartenders and Mothra will lay waste to Red River forever. (The End of Austin Issue, 2006)

A totally non-epic battle between Emos’ bartenders and half-assed goateed pro-wrestlers from Buda laid waste to a folding table at The Mohawk. (2010)

Within a year, Red7 will finally just give up on the whole act and embrace the fact that it is really just a gay bar. (The SXSquid Issue, 2010)

Ordered a “Cream O' Sailor” at a Pansy Division show at Red7 without having to worry about some hesher kicking my ass. (2010)

Beerland will be closing any day now. (Every issue since 2007)

Beerland closed ages ago, duh. (2008)

Rare Magazine will outlive Misprint because they could afford that dumb white blindembossed cover. (The Decadence Issue, 2007)

rip Rare! I usually hate being wrong, but this

Due to the smoking ban, Casino el Camino will have a children's menu. (The Smoking Issue, 2005)

A dad from a family of four (and a Casino manager) made a bartender turn his shirt inside out because it said "fuck" on it. Also, children everywhere are stoked to hang out at Casino. (2010)

We'll get fed up with the pointless work of doing a 'zine and just quit in April 2008. (The Decadence Issue, 2007)

We have years of more jokes about squid, cocks, jorts and The Cremaster Cycle. h

doesn't bother me all that much. (2010)


Misprint Estate Planning As we all know, with each passing year your beard gets greyer and the hangovers get gnarlier. Maybe it's just this town, but even with the numerous outward indicators of your impending mortality, it can be tough to slow down. At the rate things are going, Austin will be one of those cities where vast swaths of the population expire young and beautiful from a variety of lifestyle-related afflictions, like a non-reverse Logan’s Run. This naturally raises some very serious questions, such as “How many more grueling SXSW day parties do I have go to over my lifetime?” or “Will I live long enough to see the soft opening of my new neighbourhood bear bar?” As usual, Misprint is here to help with a few simple questions that can help you to calculate your lifespan.

Where are you reading this issue of Misprint?

How much marijuana do you smoke?

• In a bar, duh. (-1) • Hang gliding or base jumping. (0) • On a smoke break from my day job as a 19th century sulphur miner. (-10)

• The only reason I know how to make a bong from an apple is because I enjoy teen screwball comedies. (+1) • If I were in California, it would be prescribed for my anxiety. (-1) • I’ve seen 2Fast2Furious so many times I can recite all of Tyrese’s lines. (-3)

When did you last see a doctor?

• Day of my birth. (-10) • When I was 16 and caught the clap from a prostitute in Mexico. (-5) • I employ a buxom nurse as part of my full-time staff. (+5) What is your main form of exercise?

• Playing Wii Fit yoga. (+1) • Watching my "girlfriend"* play Wii Fit yoga. (0) • Fieldstripping my bong. (-1) How many times have you been stamped at Emo's?

• I think I unlocked the secret Emo’s level once in Rock Band 3. (+1) • I only go during Free Week. (-1) • My inside right wrist is purple because it's been eaten away by a cancerous purple monster. (-5) How much do you drink?

• Less than eight drinks a day. (0) • I hoard old stock of Joose because I unironically enjoy it. (-3) • I once drank Listerine and nail polish remover because there was no booze left at the party. (-5) What do you do for a living?

• Isotypographer. (+5) • Executive barback. (-2) • Food taster for Richard Garriot. (-20) *Director's Note: No one has a girlfriend anymore.

What best describes your diet?

• Mostly rocks, clouds and trees. (+10) • TACO TIME! (+1) • My refrigerator has a drawer designed specifically for frozen pizzas. (-3) Do you participate in any of the following hobbies?

• Quilting (+5) • Cuddling tiny adorable kittens (+8) • 'Zine writing (-1) • Squid wrasslin’ (-3) • Chainsaw juggling (-6) • Cave diving (-8) • Designing and flying experimental homebuilt autogyros. (-10)

Less than 8: You are actually already dead. 8–12: You have at least five more SXSWs to attend, so get pumped for that Voxtrot reunion. More than 12: You will live long enough to see the singularity and your consciousness will be uploaded to the internet making you effectively immortal.


How Shit Works: Austin CHAZ ATTAL

CD Jewel Cases

Sh

Golf Carts

yL itt ps to ap

Grad Students

The Eagles

ACL Fest

Louis Black

Chewbacca

DELL

CHRONICLE SXSW

Dumb Koozies

UT COLLEGE BROS

Gagging Chugging Guppy Monkey

Blazers

Hot Dog King

The Bachelor

Liberty East Side Kings

Longhorn Meat

LEBANESE MAFIA

CGI Abs

Amy’s Ice Cream PetSmart

Airstream Trailers

TATTOO PARLORS

Activity!

Troughs Ice Bats

THEORETICAL EASTSIDE BARS

Pubcrawlers

Wheatpaste Rainey Street Bars

MacReady Cold

Squid Ink

Austin Outhouse

Penguins

Water

TAM GU

$700 Ocotillo

“RANDALL”

Music Gym

ICE INDUSTRY

Black Market Cephalopod Cartilage

Jort Piñatas

Kebabalicious

Corpses

Adorable Japanese Robots

Vampire Squid

Grackle Shangri-La

Flute Playing Man-Goats

Austin Duck Tours

Toy Joy

Willie

HIGH FUNCTIONING ALCOHOLICS

Swinging Sloth

Condos

Spoon

BOB SCHNEIDER

British Dudes

RSVPster

Burnt Orange Studybreaks Crap

Yellow Rose

Banner Crew

Bloggers

TAILGATERS

TRANSM ENTERTAI

Stupid Ferns

Super Gross Nachos

Fixed Gear Bikes Smelly Dudes

Birds Barbershop JCCHHH

LONESTAR Drugs


Mops

MISSION INMENT

Sailors

Red7

Bears

COWBOY HATS

Jaywalking Beardos

FUNFUNFUNFEST Mohawk

RED RIVER

Eurobungy

Austinist

Sidebar

BANDS

Beerland

Art Acevedo

EMO’S

Drink Tickets The Internet

Underage Girls

Bar Towel Manufacturers Klub Krucial

Headhunters

Router (Broken)

Smoke Machines ED-209s

Tejano Bands

Dudley & Bob

Robert Rodriguez

Danny Trejo Matt Bearden

MALE UY

s!

Cheap Sunglasses Taschen

Good Koozies

Swamp Thing

Highland Mall Blind Salamanders

Car2Go

Batman

Moontowers

Green Lantern

Barton Springs

Seaholm Power Plant

Wetsuit Factory Wine Tastings McConaughey

SHITMYJORTS.COM

Metrorail Fiesta Mart

Cable Spool Bongos

Brass Goggles

Barfly’s

Hamilton Pool

Billy Gibbons

MISPRINT

The Brixton

Cow Bones

The Sword

Shaun Bruce Joose

LARPers

$1.50 Lonestars

Bro

The Driskill

Ladybird Johnson

Trail of Dudes

THE PREDATOR

Houshang Off-white Paper Industry

Tru Blood

Shit Tons of Fake Blood

Frost Tower Longbranch Lee Leffingwell Inn

FREEMASONS


Roomba As hip as: Judy Jetson hentai on the walls of a future Emo's. Comments: Owning a Roomba in this day and age smacks of that same bourgeoisie affectation as George Jetson’s ownership of his vaguely non-white robot servant Rosie. But historical guilt aside, whenever I meet someone who owns a cat but doesn’t have a Roomba, it's a lot like meeting one of those assholes without a cellphone. Rating:

E-Cigarette As hip as: A Camel branded snuff lounge. Comments: E-cigarettes make me long for the days when Snus was all the rage. Finally, thanks to modern technology, there’s a tobacco alternative that has all of the social stigma, addictive properties and absurd cost of smoking without that life-scorning, self-destructive ennui and its associated cool. Just be careful, because Yul Brynner might come back from the grave to punch you in the face for looking like an idiot. Rating:

QR Codes As hip as: 33.5625 bar codes. Comments: If you’re nostalgic for AOL Keywords or the Cue Cat, you’ll love forgetting about QR codes! Eighteen months from now, the only time you’ll even think of them is when you see a cheap tattoo of one blurring into a gross square on the back of some dude’s neck while he's making your burrito. I guess it might be fun to sneak a pic of it so your smartphone can magically transport you to neuticles.com. Rating:

totes recall, okay?

Tabbed Out As hip as: Opening a tab with your Taschen Type Card. Comments: Maybe I’m old and square and web 1.0, but I just don’t get this. It takes all the fun out of drawing a huge dong wearing a cowboy hat on my bartender's copy of the receipt. Also, when I'm at a bar ignoring my boring friends, I sure as fuck don't want to interrupt my Angry Birds game with itemized evidence of my debilitating alcohol addiction. Rating:

LAME <-----------------------------------------------------------------------------> AWESOME

John Anderton

Jennings

Bob Arctor

Rick Deckard

Kuato!


the future is now

Kobo As hip as: Reading Brothers Karamazov on your RAZR. Comments: Much like new vampyre movies, Mary Jane's Relaxing Soda or the Bravery, third-rate book dispensary Border's sad entry into the e-Reader market, the Kobo, arrived at the zeitgeist party only to find the keg was floated. I imagine getting one of these as a gift would sort of be like being a kid and getting Leader-1 instead of the Megatron that turns into a gun that you could rob a liquor store with.

Videophones As hip as: A David Foster Wallace book club on Chat Roulette. Comments: The advent of videophones has to be some kind of retro sci-fi in-joke. After 60 years of stunted and awkward Star Trek conversations, the fact remains that no one wants to do their hair before they talk on the phone. The videophone feels about as futuristic as Dick Tracy’s wristwatch radio. On the other hand, I guess there’s something magical about being able to watch strangers masturbate while I’m on the go.

Rating:

Rating:

Netflix Streaming Account As hip as: Returning Ransom to the Redbox at Randall's. Comments: Remember the old days when (due to your crippling social anxiety) the I Luv Video guys who made fun of you for renting Bad Boys II were your only human contact? Now that there’s streaming video, the age old problem of “getting too stoned to even go out and rent a movie” is a thing of the past. All that’s left is to snuggle up with your Roomba, your Fleshlight and a bottle of red and enjoy rewatching Last Action Hero for the 12th time.

Fleshlight As hip as: Shaving your balls with a Buck knife. Comments: Once confined to the fucked-up worlds of Cronenberg and Tetsuo: Iron Man, now anyone can combine masturbation, extreme body horror and the actual horror of inserting your penis into a biomechanical plastic tube. Next time you're done jamming at the Music Lab, pay a visit to Fleshlight HQ and tour their giant, seething vats of erotic beige polymer. You can watch it all get molded into creepy vaginas, packed into toobs and loaded into monster 18-wheelers bound for College Station!

Rating:

Rating: Fish Gun As hip as: Getting shot in the chest with a human tooth. Comments: If you really, really like being armed, then Texas' famously lenient laws can't be beat. In one night on the town, you can get your scimitar sharpened between sets at Emo's and order the fried beets and snub nose revolver combo at the cute airstream trailer behind the Brixton. But nothing's better than hitting up Perla's on a Sunday, pouring a bloody mary into your bio-port in an attempt to regain control of your reality and then compulsively assembling a fish-based weapon from the remnants of your brunch. Rating:


sxsw Bucket List The Misprint staff has been to a combined total of twenty SXSWs, but there are still a few things left to accomplish...

Kill a man for a taco. Get that fucking pair of yellow Guess jeans from their dumb party. Throw up in the bathroom of Stubb's with Rachel Ray. Sell expensive oregano to the cast of Lord of the Rings. Use my fake Jortfire Media credentials to meet the Obama Cabinet. Cut the line at Emo's with a badge made out of an old orange juice carton. Lug around free woxy promotional scented candles for seven hours. Remind each sxsw volunteer I see that he or she is a complete idiot.

Sneak into Charles Attal's party house using his last name and my first name. Watch a band from start to finish. Find out what the fuck a "Pure Volume" is. Jarts with J. Mascis at the French Legation! Cuddle my stuffed cuttlefish. Check out the Red Gorilla Music Festival. Stay off a red-eye bus to Mexico. Close my tab at Beerland. Rent my condo to Camel for their Snus Lounge. Fly to L.A. and act like a complete asshole for eight days. Stay home and watch Brisco County Jr.


sxsw Blood Chit

(ENGLISH)

(ESPAÑOL)

Dear Friend,

Estimado amigo, (ENGLISH)

(ESPAÑOL)

I am a peaceful bro from ___________

Soy un apacible hermano de _________

and I doDear notFriend, speak your language because I

Estimado amigo, su idioma porque soy jodido y no hablan

peaceful bro from ___________ am fuckedI am to amy eyeballs on free alcohol

Soy unmis apacible _________ para ojoshermano sobrede el alcohol y los

and I do not speak your language because I

y no hablan su idioma porque soy jodido

am fucked to my eyeballs on free alcohol

para mis ojos sobre el alcohol y los

and illicit narcotics and am really, really

freakingandout right now. and I seriously illicit narcotics am really, don't really

know where am.right I will notI harm freakingI out now. seriouslyyou! don'tI wheretowards I am. I will harm you! bear noknow malice yournotpeople. MyI no malice towards your people. My friend, bear please provide me with shelter,

friend, please provide me with shelter,

narcóticos ilícitos libre y estoy muy, muy volviendo loco en este momento. Yo en serio

narcóticos ilícitos libre y estoy muy, muy

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amigo,

por

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proporcione

alojamiento, agua, una manta, una camisa

water, a blanket, a clean shirt, a taco, a cell

alojamiento, agua, una manta, una camisa

phone charger, hugshugs and and necessary phone charger, necessarymedical medical

limpia, un taco, un cargador de teléfono

water, a blanket, a clean shirt, a taco, a cell

attention including a saline drip, attention including a saline drip,salt saltlick, lick, pills aand a light beer take the the charcoalcharcoal pills and light beer tototake

limpia, un taco, un cargador de teléfono

celular,loslos abrazos, la atención celular, abrazos, y la yatención médica médica necesaria como un goteo de suero necesaria como un goteo de salino, suero salino,

edge off. Also, please provide me safe edge off. Also, please provide me safe

lamer pastillas de carbón vegetal, vegetal, y lamerla lasal,sal, pastillas de carbón y una cerveza ligera que tome las borde.

passage back to my van. You will be

También, por favor me proporcione el paso

rewarded withandsome freeassisting earbuds a koozie shit for me. and Please

seguro de vuelta a mi camioneta. Usted será

passage back to my van. You will be rewarded with some free earbuds and a

koozie don't and call shit me. Please thefor cops,assisting yo. don't call the cops, yo.

una cerveza ligera que tome las borde. También, por favor me proporcione el paso

seguro de vuelta a mi camioneta. Usted será recompensado con algunos auriculares libre yrecompensado koozie una mierda por ayudarme. Por cony algunos auriculares libre favor, no llame a lamierda policía, yo. y koozie una y por ayudarme. Por

favor, no llame a la policía, yo. 2011 MISPRINT INDUSTRIES

2011 MISPRINT INDUSTRIES

3702749

3702749


AvPee


Free Shit We Got

A thinly veiled attempt, disguised as journalism, to score more free promotional hogwash.

An Ocean of Despair Thor Harris

Let’s be frank here: when someone hands you a comic called “An Ocean of Despair” it's probably safe to say it's not going to be a sexy romp in the ball pit at Austin Park and Pizza. Once again, local imprint Monofonus does the world a service by publishing impenetrable and unsellable art with actual silver ink on actual black paper. Thor (of just about every bird-based band in Austin and whose name is fucking Thor) writes and draws a moving monologue about suicide, antidepressants, seizures, forests of creepy floating eyeballs and skulls. Shit tons of skulls. Anyway, not to trying to bum you out at whatever dumb sxsw day show you’re currently ignoring, but after seeing the tenth consecutive set of uberbland boys who can’t grow facial hair snooze through more pop songs, you probably feel adrift in an ocean of despair yourself. Bikini Not in the Face

I have to admit that I feel sort of bad for enthusiastic young bands when they give us CDs. Surely after years and years of publicly professing a fathomless love of nothing, followed by that one issue where we wrote “End Live Music” on the cover in giant Pantone warm red all caps, you’d think people would stop handing us their albums like we’re some kind of legitimate rock journalists. Except for that band a few years back that put the squid on their record just to make sure we reviewed it, earnest local bands have traditionally had a rough time here in Free Shitsville. Which brings us to Not In The Face, a band which, despite making some extremely dubious typographical choices by modeling their stupid logo on that of a prominent outerwear manufacturer, is not terrible. It’s a two-piece, so they have that going for them. They sound like they listen to tons of Tom Petty and the Boss, which is pretty alright. And they’re called Not in the Face, which sets them up for all kinds of really easy jokes I’m not even going to bother making right now. So yeah, if you’re into that kind of thing and it's raining and you’re walking by a club where they're playing for free indoors or at least under some kind of tent or something, you might want to pop in and check them out.

* Mr. Belvedere says that Not in the Face's dumb band logo is way too dumb to waste Pantone brown ink on, even taking into account the two hand-drawn dicks already in this issue.

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Advice for Future 'Zinesters The last five or so years were a bad time to be a 'zine. Blogging, iPod DJs, the smoking ban, shitty post-punk bands, the off-off-white paper conspiracy, Louis Black and Chewbacca all did their best to salt the once fertile earth that humble 'zines have always relied upon. The only way to survive was extreme alcohol abuse, begging our incrementally more successful buddies for staple money and, when things got really bleak, watching the opening title sequence of Commando again and again while cuddling a giant bong in the dark. But Austin is nothing if not cyclical, and sometimes when I walk the streets late at night, I catch the unmistakable whiff of wet ink drying on hot paper which can only mean one thing: 'zines are back, bitches! Blogging is for suckers and offers no tangible sense of accomplishment! Paper is here to stay! Welcome home, brothers and sisters. Your pro-forma pals at Misprint are here to help navigate you through this Brave New World. 1. Know Your Roots in a Vague and Abstract Way

I want to take you back to a magical time in Austin. A time called 2005. Back then, every resident received a sxsw Platinum Badge free of charge if you brought a recent utilities bill into Waterloo Records. Lonestars were about the same cost as today, yet still cheaper. And a little magazine called Misprint rode in the opposite direction of the sunset, while a slew of other Austin 'zines that were fed up with all the bullshit mounted their final charge and rode into it. I think I might have (sort of) nodded at Stage/Scene (rip) as we passed, but it was still really, really awkward. Basically, your new venture is built upon the ashes and detritus of 'zines long gone, from eras that are vaguely remembered and ultimately unimportant, especially since you just moved here three months ago. When waxing nostalgic about Austin days of yore, it's easy to remember those bygone times as way better but, somehow, simultaneously way shittier than the present. Don't overthink it.

that you have meaningful opinions and insightful manifestos that the masses are just dying to consume. Clearly that's utter nonsense, and if that's what you're aspiring to, you should just quit now. If you really want to shape public discourse, run for city council or go to law school or something. Then you can experience all the futility of 'zine publishing with the added benefits of free downtown parking, posh expense accounts and a legitimate reason to wear a blazer.

2. The Part Where You Talk About Doing Something

3. Metamedia Shitshow! 'Zines occupy a lowly status on the media ladder,

When you're starting out, you may think it's a daunting task to stare at twelve blank pages and figure out what the heck to fill them with. Just wait 'til you get to 32. The secret to 'zine productivity is to simply pick a few trite, lowbrow concepts and repeat them over and over again ad nauseam until you run them into the ground. At least twice (fig 1). I'm sure there's something specific that inspired you to start a 'zine, and perhaps you feel

fig 1

somewhere above your niche erotic Tumblr and below Community Impact. That's why it's so critical for a 'zine in its infancy to garner some mainstream kudos from the real press. I'm talking, of course, about The Austin Chronicle, Austin's own version of The New York Times, minus the international clout, journalistic weight, highly skilled isotypographers and Sunday debutante society pages (The nyt does not have the Love Doc, though). Nevertheless, seeing


your 'zine in the heralded pages of The Chronicle is the inspiration you need to publish that second issue. It certainly worked for Misprint when we composed our own "Shot in the Dark" (fig 2) to ourselves in June of 2005. When we found that issue of The Chronicle blowing around in a parking lot and picked it up, we knew instantly that we had finally made it. 4. The Part With The Alcohol

Typically, 'zine creators are the product of the rare overlap between "agoraphobic wallflower" and "narcissistic douchebag." You think you have something to say, but you don't want to actually talk to anyone. This makes the very notion of a "'Zine Release Party" a bit counter-intuitive. If you're any good at all at writing or drawing, you're most likely terrible at dealing with the bands, venues, alcohol sponsors, guest lists, face painters and competitive sausage grillers necessary to make your 'zine launch a success. The only advice I can give is to book your party at the shittiest venue possible, a place that would literally take anything, from z-grade amateur wrestling to vampyre synthesizer bands. A place that keeps the night's money in a shoebox with a dollar sign drawn on it with a Sharpie. That place used to be the Flamingo Cantina, where Misprint cut its teeth back in 2005 (fig 3). Nowadays it's probably Club 1808 or Cheer Up Chubies or some shit. 5. Expanding Your Brand Empire

Assuming you crafted an exceptional logo masthead (you did, right?), you need to put it on every piece of conceivable ephemera not nailed down. When

fig 2

fig 3 Misprint started, the humble one inch round button was the item du jour. Today, it's koozies. All you need is a dollar-to-ringgit converter and 5-to-10 business days to flood the streets with more cheap Malaysian neoprene than a wine tasting in a wetsuit factory. But now that the koozies trend has peaked, it's up to you to find the next shit-hot branding opportunity. Branded yo-yos? Urinal cakes? Stunt kites? Slap bracelets? Be creative! The future has never been brighter! 6. Give a Shit About Not Giving a Shit

If you've read this far, then clearly you want to be in the 'zine business for the long haul. Congratulations? Your future looks to be filled with long, thankless hours scribbling in your journal, lengthy stretches without getting laid, crushing malnutrition, creative unfulfillment and vandalism of your vehicle by members of critically-acclaimed rock band Spoon. There's only one defense for this kind of adversity: bitter, unmitigated, vitriolic disdain. Honestly, it's hard to give enough of a shit to even write about not giving a shit any more. But it's not all bad news: you're joining a long and proud tradition of independent publications dating back to some Irish monks who foolishly carried the torch of civilization through the Dark Ages instead of pillaging shit. Go forth! Like those monks, celibate and unheralded, you now carry the unflinching flame of lowbrow dick jokes and highbrow falconry humour into the future! h


Gossip! Gossip! Gossip! Taking a break from their grueling schedule of smoking dirigible-sized spliffs and giving each other handjobs while listening to the Traveling Wilburys, Monsters of Folk frontmen/moccasin farmers M. Ward and Yim Yames started a blog devoted to their favourite rich-guy munchie, crème brûlée, called Creme Brulog. Needless to say, the zombified corpse of Paste Magazine is stoked because this shit is “hella quirky” and out-of-work English majors really dig both safe Americana rock and custard-based desserts. This blog just confirms what we already knew: Yim Yames is just that creepy burnout townie who is 35 and still works at the gas station and that the new My Morning Jacket LP will not be good. ------------------------------------------------------------In other non-news, longtime Misprint pals ...And You Will Know Us By The Trail of Guys have finally and unambiguously come out of the closet as steampunk furries. With their latest popup illustrated space opera, The Tao of the Dead, the dudes tackle heady themes like man-anthro reproduction, advanced topics in airship design and the sexiness of Maid Marian from Disney’s Robin Hood cartoon. Fans of Styx, Omaha the Cat Dancer and the snes version of Starfox are pumped. The rest of us wish they'd just go back to smashing their galvanic guitars or something. Anyway bros, you know where to find us if you need to talk through some shit or just rewatch Wild Wild West. ------------------------------------------------------------Local rippers Ume are in the running for some kind of weak-ass internet popularity contest to be on the cover of Rolling Stone. The joke’s on them though, because everyone knows that the cover of Rolling Stone is for sale to the highest bidder and Misprint already cashed in our 50% share of the Brixton and all our copies of Savage Dragon #1 to get stabba on the cover for the next billion or so weeks. Also Ume, if your reading this and still want to be famous, your wifi bandwidth would be much better spent trolling Craigslist for a new drummer than begging for Facebook fans.

Despite their life-prolonging nightly Blade II-style blood showers, undead yogurt-lovin’ hessians Slayer have finally met their matchin the form a type-I polymicrobial infection. Everyone’s favourite head-tattooed hockey fans were forced to cancel a slew of dates when guitarist Jeff Hennaman awoke to find the flesh on his arm gruesomely decomposing in a manner not dissimilar to the cover art of 1990’s Seasons in the Abyss. When pressed for comment, Slayer publicists confirm that the incident had nothing to do with the worship of Satan or Lovecraftian elder gods because the band really “doesn’t believe in that shit” and are “only in it for the beer and titties.” ----------------------------------------------------------East Sixth news flash! Like a phoenix rising anew from the ashes of utter failure that was Iron Gate IV, Iron Gate V is flipping the script with a return to the aesthetic and values that made the classic Iron Gates (Iron Gate I-III) so unforgettable. After painstakingly recreating the interior of Iron Gate I from thousands hours of archival footage, forensic study and personal interviews, the new Iron Gate has perfectly captured the essence of the shitty ambiance that made the Iron Gate so great. Also, rumours are flying that the new Iron Gate is rocking $1.50 Lonestars, which is going to be an East Sixth game changer. --------------------------------------------------------In other club news, medieval-themed divorcee pasture/Eclecticos superfan tweetup spot The Saxon Pub recently opened a second location in the burgeoning nightlife district of the Austin-Bergstrom Airport. Initial reports confirm that a Lonelyland residence has been scheduled through 2056, ensuring that three more generations of out-of-town sxsw-goers are guaranteed to experience the one thing that makes the Austin music scene great: Bob Schneider singing about tacos and his dog. h


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Misprint Magazine Vol. 6 No. 2