The Bushwick Review—Issue VI by The Bushwick Review

ISSU E

•

SUMM

2016

THE BUSHWICK REVIEW

Dear Readers, PEOPLE OFTEN ASK why it’s called The Bushwick Review. Is it because the contributors all live in Bushwick? (Nope. The contributors in this issue live in places as varied as Berlin, Las Vegas, London, and New Orleans.) Or because all the writing inside is about Bushwick? (Nope again, although there are a good amount of Bushwick-related things in this issue, maybe more so than in any previous one.) No, it’s because I put together the first issue in my kitchen in Bushwick and I thought that would be a funny name. If The Paris Review, The Harvard Review, etc., were lofty and polished perfect bound publications, then The Bushwick Review would certainly be a slapdash, DIY, stapled and photocopied thing I put together on my kitchen table. These days, I don’t do the stapling and photocopying myself, and I’m not sure many people associate Bushwick with being slapdash anymore. The rent’s too damn high, and there’s too many

swanky bars and brunch places, while other great spaces in the area have struggled and closed. I’ve seen a lot of friends take a break from New York, because it can be difficult to carve a nice quality of life here, and then they maybe come back again, or maybe not. I understand that feeling, and sometimes even relate. Other times I feel as excited as ever, excited about Bushwick, about New York, excited about making things here. Like the other weekend, when my roommates and I threw a wild Bushwick Open Studios party and there was a real spirit of good feelings and friendship in the air. Or when Tim Vienckowski first sent me his amazing design for this issue and I was totally floored, thinking that this might be the best looking TBR of all time. I mean just look at the cover, people. Look at the cover. Damn, that’s a nice cover. I’ve always wanted to have some kind of connection to everyone in each issue, and for every contributor to have a connection to at least one other contributor too. These connections are more visible in The Bushwick Review VI than ever before. Intentionally or not, several pieces complement each other in a nice way. As a whole, I think they’re all having a good dialogue together. Anyway, that’s it. I hope you are doing things you like to do, that you are around people you love, and that you are enjoying your summer. :) Love, K10 (Kristen Felicetti) thebushwickreview.com bushwickreview@gmail.com — Thank you to Joel Alter, Alison Breaden, and Michele Rosenthal for their copy editing assistance.

ISSUE SUMMER 2016

Selected Quotations

“ THE YOUTH EXPRESS THEMSELVES THROUGH DANCE. ” Mike & Michele

“ THIS UNSTOPPABLE FORCE CALLED MANHATTAN, A CRUISE SHIP WITH MORE STAFF TO GUESTS, IS GOING UNDER— AND WITH IT, IT’S TAKING ITS ONBOARD ENTERTAINMENT. ” Lois Farningham

Rosenthal p.15

“ EYE CONTACT WITH FRANK OCEAN FELT LIKE TONGUING THE QUARTERBACK UNDER THE HIGH SCHOOL BLEACHERS. ” Mitchell Kuga

p.24

p.15

S I TS 8 p.4 S A m

“

E TH

FLI

R KE

HIT

G TO

H ET

”

H da ON ster O Am M an

ING Bri

See back page for full index

“ I’LL TELL YOUR FORTUNE RIGHT NOW, YOU’RE FUCKING DRUNK AND A GENIUS ” Kenton Deangeli p.64

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THE BUSHWICK REVIEW

Mollie Levy-Roseroot

Lucy K Shaw

ISSUE VI SUMMER 2016

Penny WE MET A GLAMOROUS older woman named Penny on a terrasse outside of a cafe on the rue Perrée on the day after Christmas. It was warm and we were together again and I had forgotten that anybody else in the world existed. But she started talking to us, hearing our English, and then commenting on the fact that we didn’t look like we were from around there. I was still getting used to the way people looked us up and down as we paraded around the city in our usual apparel. We were the only ones, it seemed, who had neglected to wear the uniform of all black. But Penny had bleached blonde hair and a fading tan. She didn’t fit in either. And she reminded me of an exotic bird. Or she reminded me of a coat made from the feathers of an exotic bird. But either way, she was beautiful. She said that she had lived in Paris for 40 years, ‘on and off,’ and before that, as it turned out, she had attended a private school right around the corner from where I had grown up in England. She was seeing herself in me, I thought. And I was seeing myself in her too. Drunk and alone on a terrasse in Paris, on the day after Christmas, in the future. She told us things like, ‘I worked the opening night at Studio 54,’ and ‘My fiancé died from a brain tumour when I was 26,’ and ‘Then I followed another man to Switzerland,’ and, ‘Then I was a

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THE BUSHWICK REVIEW

PENNY, cont’d

chef for the King of Sweden.’ I told her the same thing that people have often said to me when I try to explain my transient lifestyle, that she didn’t look old enough to have had all of these experiences. She said she was 58, darling. She said she had spent millions on skin care. I didn’t care. I just wanted to know if it had all been worth it. The displacement. The not going home. Oscar stood up to go to the bathroom and I leaned over and asked her the only thing I really wanted to know, ‘Do you feel Parisian yet?’ I felt like even after 40 years, one might never feel at home in Paris but I hoped I was wrong. She couldn’t give me a simple answer. But she bought wine for us. It was 3 o’clock in the afternoon, and she knew everybody in the cafe. She called each one of them ‘darling’ or ‘mon cheri.’ She said things that seemed vaguely racist and we gave her the benefit of the doubt. She said things that seemed obviously, openly racist, and we looked over at each other and sipped our wine nervously. I reached across the table and held his fingertips, unsure of how to respond. She asked us how long we had known each other. I said, ‘Six months. But it feels like...’ I didn’t know what it felt like. I just knew that every time he told me a story about something that had happened before we met, I felt surprised that we could ever have not known one another. I smiled and stopped talking and he nodded in agreement. I thought about a moment, the night before, when we had been sitting in bed. He was shirtless, leaning back on to the pillows, and I was still fully clothed in a cream, lace dress with my thick, woollen hat on. I was sitting cross-legged in front of him, tracing the lines of his ribcage with my fingertips as we alternated between whispering and laughing. I remembered looking into his eyes and challenging myself to keep doing it, because it had felt so scary and so unknown. I asked Penny if she had ever had children. ‘No.’ This suited me. She asked him where he had grown up. He said ‘Here... Paris.’ She asked me where I went to college, I said ‘Montreal.’ She asked us where we met. We said, ‘Brooklyn.’ She laughed.

She reminded me of an exotic bird. Or she reminded me of a coat made from the feathers of an exotic bird.

ISSUE VI SUMMER 2016

‘Montreal’s a lovely city. You should live there,’ she told us. ‘I was thinking that too,’ he responded, very quickly. My eyes opened wider and I looked to him, nervously again, resting the fingers of one hand on my bottom lip. I imagined us there in the summer time, all bilingual and tan. It was silly but it wasn’t silly at all, actually. We refilled our wine glasses. We hadn’t eaten since the night before. ‘Really?’ I said. She laughed as he nodded once more. And I felt myself sinking into myself. Unfamiliarly but pleasant. Something about just being close to him made me feel more beautiful. I realized, this was what people talked about when they talked about falling in love. It was impossible not to recognize. It was too different. That week we had talked about living in Paris, New York, London, Detroit, Montreal, Barcelona, Russia. There was no way we were ever going to be living in Russia, I already knew, although the thought, at least, seemed aesthetically pleasing. But it had all happened so unexpectedly at the end of the summer time. And now every time we talked I was envisaging a different version of the future. I didn’t care where it was. I just wanted it to be with him. I just wanted to be with him. He looked so different with his new haircut and no stubble on his face. And I watched as he answered Penny’s questions about his neighbourhood and his parents, and about the exams he had taken as a teenager. And I thought about how I didn’t understand the French school system at all. I thought about how we had grown up a few hundred miles apart. Me, just across the water in England. And I thought about how many times we had crossed the ocean since

then, playing transatlantic ping-pong. I thought about how everything had been easier since I had known that he was alive at the same time as me, and how I didn’t understand how that could be possible. I looked over to a group of people smoking outside of the front door of the cafe and I felt for a moment like I was one of them, like I was only observing this scene. The young, fresh eyed and so new-in-the-world, beautifully awkward couple with this otherworldly exotic bird of an older lady. Transplants on this Earth who didn’t belong anywhere and yet here they all were, for a moment, together. I listened to myself as I answered Penny’s questions about the book I was writing and I thought, ‘So this is me in the world right now.’ And I wondered about her life. Then Penny told us that she had to go, suddenly. She had twelve people coming over for dinner and she still had to buy the leeks for the soup. Of course, it was a relief as much as it was anything else. We fell into conversation with each other and she talked to someone else for a minute, moving quickly, redressing herself for the winter outside on the street. And then she stood up, asked for my last name, kissed my cheek and walked out of the cafe and exited. Out of our lives again. We didn’t know if she had paid the bill or not. But it seemed highly likely that everything she had just told us had been a lie. We laughed. He kissed my nose gently, warming it. He took my hand and we walked out of the cafe too. He went back to America a week later and whatever we had become was once again paused from existence. I wondered if Penny would remember us.

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Raul Coto-Batres

 Julia Lines  Noah Cicero

Wilson

A Way Somehow

ISSUE VI SUMMER 2016

I don’t know, at times, if you are really people, I know you are people, I mean, you aren’t walking on fours, and you wear clothes. (But sometimes, when you’re naked, I don’t know if you are human, and get confused, that’s why I don’t go to strip joints anymore, or have sex.) How did you all become people? How did you get so good at showing up on time for work, and doing what your manager says, how did you get so good at being detail oriented. There is an ad on Craigslist for a processor, that says, ‘We are looking for someone seriously ready to start a career and care about the work they do every day.’ Seriously the article doesn’t even state what the company produces? How the fuck can you people, care about some unknown something, will you even care after you get the job? How do you become a person? Usually, instead of trying to get a job, I listen to music on YouTube, instead of being a person, I try to become the notes of songs, the chord structure of ‘Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow’ covered by Amy Winehouse, I want to become that song, I learned the song on guitar and strum it on my adobe porch thing, trying to become non-human, sometimes I try to become the taste of a Carl’s Jr. cheeseburger, I want to be that delicious, that bad for you. Sometimes I listen to Amitabha Chants, Navajo Chants, even old Kentucky Old Regular Baptists call out chants, I want to be a pure feeling, that may lead to heaven, but instead I am Noah Cicero, sometimes I scream, I can’t be controlled, I can’t be tamed, because I don’t know what to be—

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THE BUSHWICK REVIEW

Noah Cicero

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When you see a pronghorn antelope from your car, high up north in Nevada, by the Walker River Rez. I don’t know what to be, the antelope, the person seeing the antelope, the grass that the antelope is eating, the feeling the person gets from seeing the antelope, the feeling the antelope has while eating the grass, so I try to be all things, then I realize, I’m just wind, swirling and swirling, and it is okay, and it isn’t okay, and all will work itself out, something is taking its course, but it never works out, and all all all it comes, and the wind shaking the leaves of the palm tree, the hum of bugs, and me trying to find a job on Craigslist.

Say it to me Now I sent her an email, it said, ‘Call at 8pm, your time today, and read these sentences to me, don’t even wait for me to say hello, just start reading— Noah, you will never see me again. Noah, you will never hold me again. Noah, if we are in the same room, we cannot kiss, we cannot touch, we cannot do anything physical together, because I have a new boyfriend. At night or when I’m bored at work, I will remember sitting with you next to the Cuyahoga and Han River. I will even remember the river in Santa Fe that had no water.’ Then in a peaceful voice, say— ‘Goodbye Noah.’ She never called that day. He received an email four days later stating, ‘Noah, get it together, its been a year. Watch some Greta Gerwig movies, and get over it.’

K AT H L E E N F L O O D

#IRL2016 13

#IRL2016 is a tattoo I almost got on New Years Day. Instead, I wake up with it on the 2nd scratched onto my forearm with a ballpoint pen. It stays there for three days before it washes off. I wiled out. Because I can, because it feels good to forget the things I don’t want to feel. Be someone else for a while. Yoga sweats, night sweats, stress sweats. Bruises roll down my legs like loose change. “You’re not perfect, but you’re not your mistakes.” Next level emoji-ing: (comfy girl smiling over beautiful emails from boy lounging in hammock) He shows me magic again. I wanna know, Where the wild things are? How fast can I let go of my bullshit... IRL2016 is not a second guess. IRL2016 is about fighting against ‘the struggle’ IRL2016 is for lovers IRL2016 is about ME being in love again My iPhone 6+ has a scratched X across it like fingernails scraping a chalkboard. Dinosaurs, apple jacks. Ship decks. Feeling so broken inside but trying to be brave, enough not to let anyone else piece me back together.

THE BUSHWICK REVIEW

KRAFTWERK, IN...

c i n o ine S e h e T h n c i e a h n M c i e a n h n M c a i a M h M c a M BY MIKE ROSENTHAL AND MICHELE ROSENTHAL

KRAFTWERK PERFORMANCE TONIGHT!

THE YOUTH EXPRESS THEMSELVES THROUGH DANCE.

THEY REQUIRE OUR MUSICAL ENERGIES TO PROCEED.

MY NEW MELODY SYNTHESIZER WILL IGNITE THEIR HUMAN SEXUALITY.

FLORIAN, ACCESS YOUR MEMORY BANKS FOR THE NIGHT OF DECEMBER 11TH, 1970 AT 23:00 HOURS.

MY CALCULATIONS WERE OFF. A MISTAKE TONIGHT WILL NOT TRANSPIRE.

KRAFTWERK, YOUâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;RE ON IN 5.

BUT THOSE YOUTHS. WHAT YOUR MUSICAL SYNTHESIS DID TO THEIR BRAINS OF FLESH...

MY CALCULATIONS TONIGHT ARE PERFECT.

I WILL PUSH THE LIMITS OF FREQUENCIES AND CREATE DANCE FUEL OF MAXIMUM EFFICIENCY.

BUT WHAT OF YOUR MARGIN OF ERROR?

MY MARGIN OF ERROR IS STATISTICALLY INSIGNIFICANT.

THE SHOW ’S STARTING!

I LOVE YOU RALPH!

WAIT...

THAT ISN’T KRAFTWERK. THAT’S...

A BUNCH OF SHOWROOM DUMMIES!

IS THIS THE END OF KRAFT WERK?

NEIN. WE ARE KRAFTWERK.

KRAFTWERK IS ENDLESS

LIKE EUROPE.

YOU WILL NOW ENJOY OUR FREQUENCIES.

The full comic is available at etsy.me/1KyPWXu

KARL

WOLFGANG FLORIAN

RALPH

TO BE CONTINUED...

Frank Ocean Fan Fiction

Mitchell Kuga

The first thing you notice about Frank Ocean is the way he looks at you. I was at Kelela’s release party at a nightclub in Bushwick, talking to my friend Joey, who “curated looks” for a photo shoot she did with a French magazine. Le something. He was the kind of friend you saw once or twice a year, always after midnight. We were leaning in a corner, our faces lit by the glare of our Instagram feeds. Joey was telling me about a Scruff hookup who smelt like multi-green Kombucha and fucked like he was on ketamine. I glanced around the nightclub—past Solange twirling under a disco ball—when our eyes met. Or collided. It couldn’t have lasted longer than a second. One disarmingly intimate second amidst lasers and magenta-colored smoke. Like something sweaty out of an LL Cool J video. Listen, I hate schmaltz. But eye contact with Frank Ocean felt like tonguing the

quarterback under the high school bleachers. “Isn’t that fucking crazy?” Joey said, wrapping up his story. “Huh? What? Oh yeah, ughh! Ketamine sex is…the worst.” I looked in Frank’s direction again. He was sort of listening to a pretty girl. He looked up at me again and smiled, a big white crescent interrupted by a sliver of gap tooth. I excused myself. Jim Beam rushed to my head. I needed to wash my face. I entered the bathroom and went into the last stall, feeling a little dizzy. Was I imagining things? As I finished peeing I could feel someone behind me. “Almost finished,” I called out, annoyed. As I pulled up my pants someone stepped into the stall and locked the door. It was Frank. Before I could say “what the fuck” he pressed his pointer finger against my lips—“shhhh”—and grabbed the back of my neck, pulling me into his lips. We kissed, softly at first. His breath smelt like weed and Eclipse Winterfresh; his body like weed and Tom Ford’s Tuscan Leather. My tongue pressed into his neck. He moaned, grabbed my ass and whispered “you’re fucking perfect” into my ear. A few minutes later, our mouths loosened into a wet embrace. Time and space vanished. It wasn’t until I tugged at his belt—I couldn’t help myself—that he backed away. “Hah! Don’t be crazy. I just met you,” he said, smiling, his sexual bravado receding to the measured persona of “Grammy Winning R&B Sensation Frank Ocean.” Fucking tease. “I’m probably going to call it a night. Maybe head back to my hotel.” I mustered up the last remnants of liquid courage and invited him to my apartment. Frank pulled up the hood of his leather jacket as we exited the club, past a group of Hood By Airs duckwalking to a DJ spinning intergalactic vogue. Despite the snow you could smell a warehouse fire blazing in Williamsburg. “New York is burning,” he said, letting that hang in the air as his Jordans skidded over pockets of black ice. The streets were empty. We shared a cigarette. I asked him if he goes out a lot. “Nah, tonight was an exception. I couldn’t sleep…I don’t really fuck with people too much. I got my dog Everest, he keeps me sane. I got my keyboard and electric guitar. The industry doesn’t interest me as much as it used to. A lot of egos. I got one, but recently I’ve been trying to…shed it, maybe get less attached to the expensive cars and the flat screens. I mean, I still fuck with a Maybach. But I also fucks with meditation. I’ve found silence in a screaming world. You ever been to L.A.? It’s a weird shiny bubble; oppressive sunshine; ephemeral. But the palm trees, the open highways at 2am…” “L.A. is pretty but everyone seems kind of desperate. Or at least people here are better at hiding it,” I said, striking a typical New York pose. “Okay Woody Allen. That’s such a typical New York pose.”

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Frank Ocean Fan Fiction

“Fuck that guy!” He laughed. “I won the Grammy.”

“Whatever… Hey creep, why did you follow me into the bathroom?” “Uhhh, cause your cheekbones gave me a boner.” My laughter echoed off a corrugated warehouse. “An emotional boner though, some third eye shit. Don’t act like you didn’t like it. Plus, not to make it seem utilitarian but I had to get out of a conversation with some model slash DJ slash social climber—not into that, you learn to smell it from a mile away. I don’t really pursue people, guys or girls. Especially guys cause faggots, they talk too much and I’m not into that. But I’m in New York for a few days so…fuck it. I recently got out of a relationship with someone who couldn’t understand my attraction to men. I’m like ‘It’s energy. What’s to understand?’ That really broke me. I thought she was different.” I told him I was in an open relationship with a guy for the past five years. He flinched for a second, before playing it cool. “Word. I tried that for a second, the open thing, with my ex Willy. It didn’t work. I got too jealous. You know, models,” he said, rolling his eyes. “I think the only way it can work is if you’re completely honest, ego-free, and love the other person more than you love yourself.” He paused. “Do you love him?” “I do. But I told him once that I would leave him for either you or Miguel. You’re the only exceptions.” “Fuck that guy!” He laughed. “I won the Grammy. And you don’t want me either. I’m cute and rich but also kind of an asshole.” “I like assholes,” I said, and pushed him into a mound of snow. AT MY APARTMENT, Frank rolled a blunt and and we smoked it on the couch, listening to an Aaliyah record. I offered him a Modelo but he said he quit drinking. So I made tea. As I waited for the water to boil I overheard his falsetto from the kitchen: “When I feel / What I feel / Sometimes it’s hard to tell you so…” I sat on the couch and handed Frank a cup of chamomile. “You don’t have to stop,” I said. “She really was an angel,” he said, taking a sip. “When all is said and done, I truly believe that women of color are going to save the world. It’s all we have left. Like bless Obama, but if Michelle were president….” And on and on. We eventually stripped and climbed into bed. I wish I could say we made love, or at least fucked. That Frank kissed every inch of my body, that I devoured his. But instead we talked, in hushed whispers, about life and fame and possible past lives. Our desire, it seemed, was a flame; easy to ignite, hot to the touch, orange and extinguishable. In bed our fingers touched, the world around us spinning and dissolving into a soft blackness. I was high as fuck. When I got up the next morning Frank was gone. He left a note on my desk, on a ripped pink post-it:

“at your best you are luhh christopher”

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THE BUSHWICK REVIEW

Lois Farningham

Manhattan at 12.5 Feet Above Sea Level + Under IT MAY FEEL AS THOUGH this playground for the 1% and workplace for everyone else is sinking, but in fact the sea is rising. This unstoppable force called Manhattan, a cruise ship with more staff to guests, is going under—and with it, it’s taking its onboard entertainment. Manhattan, long beheld a multicultural metropolis, houses diversity unmatched by many other cities, and all too soon, this could disappear as climate change makes an irrevocable difference to the way we live, thrive, and coalesce geographically. The impact of sea level rise is somewhat of a grey area. Given the multitude of complex, shifting environmental conditions, it’s almost impossible to accurately predict sea level rise within a human-scale time frame, so the predictions that we are working with often span centuries. Centuries to us are abstract; we struggle to think beyond 100 years, when our lifespan is less than that. This should not, however, legitimize our indifference to climate change and the becoming world— however unimaginable it is. The invisible line around Manhattan that marks the future edge where land will meet sea runs under the feet of thousands of unassuming New Yorkers daily. A monument to the future footprint of the city: at 12.5 feet above the current sea level, it marks the boundary where the land and sea meet once the entire West Antarctic Ice Sheet melts. A recent study by NASA scientists reveals that the West Antarctic Ice Sheet is past its tipping point, and the complete collapse of the ice sheet is inevitable and imminent. For the next 200 years or so, the ice sheet’s retreat will be somewhat slow and steady due to the bowl-like shape of the earth’s depression it sits in. Once past the shallow rim, the ice will melt at an alarming rate as the face of the ice sheet deepens in profile and is exposed to the warm currents. The majority of the ice sheet could melt in a matter of decades which could potentially throw society into crisis. If our predictions are right, and we find ways of managing these changes in time with sea defense systems on a colossal scale, there is a chance that money will be funneled into Manhattan to save its real estate, but this will not be the case for many other cities, or even the other side of the East River where huge expanses of Brooklyn are low-lying. Alternatively, we won’t meet our predictions, and the ice sheets will melt much sooner and unexpectedly, in which case we are all screwed. Turn over for top picks from around Manhattan at 12 feet above sea level and under. Stop by these places before they become the East River. Who knows, it probably won’t happen for 200 years, so Thanks to: you’re alright, but there’s a fraction of a Scientists from the Radar Science chance it could happen in 50. The truth is we and Engineering Section at NASA’s don’t really know. But what we do know is Jet Propulsion Laboratory (JPL) that it will happen sometime. So make sure you get to see Manhattan’s delights before Climate Central’s mapping tool: sealevel.climatecentral.org this battleship sinks.

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WAIS (West Antarctic Ice Sheet)

EAIS (East Antarctic Ice Sheet)

0 1000km

+12.5'

0 5km

THE BUSHWICK REVIEW

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12 Feet Above Sea Level and Under 27

Cachapas y Mas 107 Dyckman St

2. Sweet

Mama’s Soul Food 689 Malcolm X Blvd

3. Patsy’s

Pizzeria 2287 1st Ave

19 22

4. La

Tropezienne Bakery 2131 1st Ave #1

5. Cascalote

Latin Bistro 2126 2nd Ave

6. La

Tarte Flambée 1750 2nd Ave

14 18

13 9

7. El

Pote Español 718 2nd Ave

8. B

SIDE Dive Bar 204 Ave B

9. Titanic

Memorial Park Fulton & Pearl Sts

10. Zum

Schneider 107 Ave C

11. 6BC

Botanical Garden E 6th St between Ave B & C

12. Nuyorican

Poets Cafe 236 E 3rd St

13. Cowgirl

Seahorse 259 Front St

14. Fresh

Salt 146 Beekman St

19. Luke’s

15. September

20. The

11 Memorial 180 Greenwich St

16. Hook

& Ladder 8 (Ghostbusters Firehouse) 14 N Moore St

17. Trading

Post 170 John St

18. Elevated

Acre 55 Water St

Lobster 26 S William St Dead Rabbit 30 Water St

21. Battery

Park Battery Pl, State St & Whitehall St

22. Kaffe

1668 275 Greenwich St

23. Korchma

Taras Bulba 357 W Broadway

3 31

30 28 29

24. Teardrop

Park Warren St & River Terrace

25. Mooncake

Foods 111 John St

26. China

Blue 135 Watts St

27. Rusty

Knot 425 West St

28. Rocket

Pig 463 W 24th St

29. The

Eagle 554 W 28th St

30. Frying

Pan 530 W 26th St

31. Intrepid

Sea, Air & Space Museum Pier 86 â&#x20AC;&#x201D; W 46th St & 12th Ave

32. Dinosaur

Bar-B-Q 700 W 125th St

THE BUSHWICK REVIEW

Blanca

American (new) 261 Moore St (347) 799-2807 By reservation only

Zachary Feldman

Three Bushwick Restaurant Reviews Inside Roberta’s Carlo Mirarchi blows minds while you blow your wad Aging animals until they’re James Brown funky now it’s vintage meat You there, with the beard putting some mangalitsa1 on that there pizza 1. a type of pig

Feed me nduja2 and I’ll feed some back to ya total food boner

Arrogant Swine

North Carolina-style BBQ 173 Morgan Ave (347) 328-5595

with extra fatty meat 2. a type of sausage

Eating warehouse pork or porking in a warehouse go “whole hog” for both Sweet tater waffles with bourbon maple syrup waffle everything Waffle that pig meat it’s cooked Carolina-style with piquant sauces

Bunna Cafe Ethiopian 1084 Flushing Ave (347) 295-2227

Ethiopian and vegan are two words that make a lot of sense together after tasting kdija sraje’s unreal tibs and wots Treat yourself to an Ethiopian coffee ceremonial

Zebadiah Keneally

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L-Mo’s Market 19 reviews $$$ • Grocery

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51 Morgan Ave Brooklyn, NY 11206 East Williamsburg, Bushwick Morgan Ave and 2 other stations (718) 386-2380

Kristen F. Brooklyn, NY 22 friends 3 reviews

Growing up I never went to church, or any place of worship, but I imagine it would be something like going to L-Mo’s Market, the place that is the most sacred to me in all of New York City. The place that makes me feel truly #blessed. If you live in NYC, or a similarly structured city, while you read this review, replace L-Mo’s with your local deli or bodega. I imagine there will be things in here that you find relatable. If you don’t live in a major city with a local bodega, this review is possibly going to sound insane to you. L-Mo’s is the 24/7 deli and small grocery store less than 30 steps from my apartment. I go there pretty much every day, sometimes multiple times a day. On any given trip to L-Mo’s, I might be found buying a breakfast sandwich, coffee, a single paper towel roll cause my apartment ran out, a 4-pack of toilet paper cause my apartment ran out, one of their sandwiches for lunch or dinner, hummus, plain rolls to dip in hummus (possibly as dinner), a single beer pulled from a six pack, an entire six pack if I’m going to a social function where it would not be appropriate to just bring a single beer, a drunken 10pm grilled cheese sandwich, a drunken 3am grilled cheese sandwich… the list goes on and on and gets less dignified. I have four roommates and they all have equal devotion to L-Mo’s. In fact, if one of us is going to L-Mo’s and sees other roommates on the way out, the unwritten rule is that you must ask, “Need anything from L-Mo’s?” This offer is rarely taken up, possibly because the person being asked simply plans to go to L-Mo’s herself in 15 minutes, but it’s still quite nice, it’s our own house valediction, like how other people might say “see you later.” I don’t know how it even started, but I was doing it with the previous round of roommates that lived here

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and I must have passed it on to the current ones. I see this as my legacy. Long after I’ve moved out of my apartment, when I’m elderly and living in a nursing home, the current line-up of roommates in year 2060 will be tenderly asking each other if they need anything from L-Mo’s. I’ve gone to L-Mo’s in all sorts of states. Drunk, hungover, in sickness and in health. One day, sick in bed with the flu, I realized I hadn’t left the apartment all day, not even to go to L-Mo’s, and that’s when I knew my condition was really dire. I have never once gone to L-Mo’s in my pajamas though. I’ve seen more than a couple L-Mo’s patrons do this, and I’m sorry to be judgy here, but have some fucking dignity. This is not your shitty college town campus dining hall. This is L-Mo’s, so show the employees a little respect and at least

put on real pants. Speaking of the staff of L-Mo’s, I’m on “Hi Kristen” terms with most of them. My roommates and I know all their names and are invested in their lives. Jeffrey, Pablo, Kevin, etc. We’re happy for them when they get new girlfriends or take a well-earned vacation. When Kevin, our night sandwich guy abruptly quit, without telling any of his coworkers where he was going, it was gossip around our house. I felt sad that I’d probably never see Kevin again, that he’d never again be in my life, probably more sorrow than I have felt knowing that same fact about deceased relatives or short-term dating prospects.

More business info Accepts Credit Cards Yes Parking Street Wheelchair Accessible Yes

Also, here’s another judgy aside: tip your sandwich guys, especially if they’re as good as the guys at L-Mo’s. We tip bartenders (at least I hope you do) on every drink, so why in God’s name don’t we tip the guys who make our sandwiches every time? It takes more TLC to make your Tofu Steak sandwich than it does to pop the cap off a bottle of beer, so tip your sandwich guys. They are nourishing you, they are taking proper care of you the way your hypothetical boyfriend or girlfriend would make you a home-cooked meal, they are probably giving you your only serving of fruit all day by throwing some avocado on your #28 Pro Bro sandwich, so for God’s sake, man, tip them. TIP THEM. Of all the L-Mo’s employees, the king is John. John is an Asian man in his mid-to-late fifties, maybe even sixties, who works the counter night shift at L-Mo’s. That means like, 6pm to 6am. Those are ungodly hours to work at any job, especially at his age, but to deal with everyone who comes through this popular Bushwick deli and grocery at 3am every night, you must be a superhero. I mean, I once lay facedown in there, reaching for bags of chips sprawled all over the floor, and I consider myself one of their more well-behaved and polite patrons, so I can’t even imagine what kind of shitshows John has witnessed, what kind of garbage people have strolled through his store at 4:30am. Lest you think John is some living, silent, saint, let me also tell you he’s got fire. Sass. He’ll rib my roommates with comments like “Oh… no beer today?” Or one time, when I brought several bags of chips up to the counter (not the same evening as when I lay facedown with chips on the floor), he rang them up while saying, “Chip, chip, mo’ chip...” Jesus, John, I was getting them for me and my roommates. They weren’t all for me. Like a diamond, John continues to reveal new facets of himself. One night I walked out of my apartment, in the direction of L-Mo’s, and saw John standing outside, smoking a cigarette on his break. The outside lights of the deli were hitting him just so, in a way that made his silhouette cut a striking figure. I realized that John must have once been a very handsome man. With the way he held his cigarette, I imagined that in his youth, he must have looked somewhat like Tony Leung in In the Mood for Love. Not wanting to enter and disturb his reverie, I turned around and went back into my apartment, whispering the word “iconic” to myself, because that’s what John truly is. L-mo’s never closes. In addition to being open 24/7, they are open all holidays and no weather has ever shut them down. Not Hurricane Irene, not Hurricane Sandy, not Winter Storm Juno. No, L-Mo’s is always there. If there is ever a Zombie Apocalypse, believe me, John will be standing there stoically, like a captain prepared to go down with his ship. He’ll have a rifle in one hand and with the other he’ll be able to ring you up some chips. Was this review ...?

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the second line is typically led by members of a community-based social aid and pleasure club, joined by dancers and a brass band, and weaves through neighborhood streets over the course of a Sunday afternoon. Anyone is welcome to follow along—and dance, or drink—for as long as they like. The photos shown are from my two favorite second lines: the extraordinary Super Sunday parade of the Mardi Gras Indians, and the Black Men of Labor, which rolls through my neighborhood. Instead of showing perfectly composed shots of the paraders, I wanted to present the overlooked moments— taking breaks, snapping photos, or stopped traffic. In a second line, even what’s behind the scenes is part of the performance.

p.4

LINES

THE BUSHWICK REVIEW

Kait Heacock

WE ARE SMALL TOWN. Small town. We are 509 branded. This isn’t our first time at the rodeo. We’ve actually been to a rodeo. State fair. Church camp. Backyard barbecue slip ’n slide bonfire inner tubing star-gazing. Our lives are mapped by rivers and mountain ranges. Our futures are shaped by agriculture, where our parents worked, GEDs. We drive in pick-up trucks. There used to be a drive-in theater, and people filled it on Friday nights to watch double features. We hang out in the Jack-inthe-Box parking lot and cruise Nob Hill. We’ve run through the orchards at night, laughing. We sneak into the public pool late at night to swim the empty waters. We skinny dip in lakes. We’ve gone ice blocking drunk. We get drunk in parking lots. We wander through Walmart in the middle of the night because there’s nothing else to do. There are two of them, bookmarking east and west, so now we have options. We walk through the corn maze every fall, wait and see what design the field has been cut in this year. Families go during the days, but at night groups of girls scream at the monsters hired to jump out at them and teen couples purposely lose themselves down a dead end and kiss until discovered. In the summer, we float down the river, past winding roads and speeding cars that honk their horns in jealousy. But we don’t care—we’ve got music and booze and a sense of permanence in the water, even as it snakes through the canyons and inevitably ends. You have to go back to shore at a safe spot; kids have drowned here before. What traditions are there during the winter when the roads haven’t been plowed and the apple trees are sheathed in ice? We want the peaches back. The asparagus and onions. Give us cherries that we can split in our mouths and suck on the pits, our fingers stained with evidence of the slaughter. In a small town you live for summer. Country music makes us fall in love. We’ve fallen in love a half-dozen times on swing sets. On baseball fields. Parked cars. On the merry-go-round. We’ve spun in circles at night—faster, faster—and when it stopped, held hands and stared up at the stars. Let’s kiss every time another firework bursts above us. Let’s make the lights jealous. We all know someone who has died tragically. Or too young. Or both. We know someone with a habit. Someone with an addiction. Someone who has been to jail. We know that one person who got out and the one who came back. Married too young; divorced even younger. We know the girl who got pregnant in high school and the boy who got kicked out. Our high school reunion is every night at Bill’s Place. At Sports Center. Let’s skip Jackson’s and go to McGuire’s. Remember that time at McGuire’s? At Bert’s? Yeah, me neither. The bookstores closed down, but more banks keep opening.

Hometown

Give us cherries that we can split in our mouths and suck on the pits, our fingers stained with evidence of the slaughter.

Carabella Sands

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

Lydia Nichols Brett Masterson

THE BUSHWICK REVIEW

Brian Amsterdam

Phil Pierce

THE BUSHWICK REVIEW

Brian Amsterdam

ISSUE SUMMER 2016

Raul Coto-Batres

Lee Noble

THE BUSHWICK REVIEW

Phil Pierce

Oscar Bruno D’Artois

into the wild i decided to go meet some friends by a lake in a remote area outside the city after i got off work on a warm-for-february day i walked for a long time past many houses that seemed very ‘the great gatsby’ until i got to one that was called the ‘haus of sans souci’ it was next to a building where they came up with the idea for a ‘final solution’ in 1942 presumably while looking out over the same lake my friends were not there i walked some more & felt like i’d been walking for years i wanted to lie facedown in the middle of the dirt path & give up i thought about taking some mdma a co-worker had sold to me earlier via ‘the office’s’ internal email system i saw some pigs rustle around in the dark & became convinced i was about to be mauled by a bear i felt scared about it, then smug i imagined my funeral, my friends all teared up & horrified at themselves because they hadn’t waited for me that day at the lake i walked some more & came to a bus stop that did not look like any bus had ever stopped at it i thought i would probably die of thirst, actually & smoked a cigarette so i would feel less thirsty i felt feelings of abandonment then thought about how i had to stay ‘stoic’ how stoic i was being made me want to cry i got lonely & took pictures of myself smoking the cigarette anyway after about 5 minutes the bus came

ISSUE VI SUMMER 2016

THE BUSHWICK REVIEW

Oscar Bruno D’Artois

bear lyfe my mom & i are getting drunk at the kitchen table this is how we break the ice after when we haven’t seen each other for a long time when we’ve ‘had enough’ that we can begin Talking about the Things that Matter i let a beat go by before i pseudo-casually bring up the body when i found out via text i felt pissed i hadn’t intuited it we had a special bond i thought also embarrassed because i’d been doing that acting extra normal in a way that retrospectively will seem completely insane thing then i spent ~30 minutes trying to settle on an appropriate emoticon to send in response one that was understated enough as not to seem fake but also not so understated as to come off as callous & went to work i thought about a not very popular history teacher i had in middle school one day she was being her usual nagging unpleasant self but also she seemed privately, quietly upset my friend whispered ‘her cat must’ve died’ to me & we snickered & she asked us to plz stfu my sister told me she wanted to have a funeral ‘that is weird,’ i said ’anyway they didn’t keep the ashes b/c they didn’t want to seem like weird cat ppl’ my mom reaches for her phone & shows me a picture of it lying on the rug while ‘the body was still warm’ & i think ‘that is a picture of a dead cat’

ISSUE VI SUMMER 2016

minimalists our 2 nearly identical Ultra Lite grey laptops lying on either side of the straw mat + futon on the hardwood floor in the v vintage apartment with the dollhouse-sized coffee cups yr frank o’hara suggestively rubs up against my rilke in our tastefully selective tiny book collection u have been saying you don’t like some things that i like & i have been making long lists of everything that is wrong with you in my head recently we had a fight & u cried so now i am in love w/ u again i have been thinking phrases like ‘eros as it relates to the ancient chinese torture method of lingchi’ again more lately also, somebody’s cat on instagram is a lot more famous than they are

Jenn Hyland



THE BUSHWICK REVIEW

Praise Be to the  

Sarah Jean Alexander Jenn Hyland

ISSUE VI SUMMER 2016

Praise be to man as god and god as worthless.

Tongue

And in this exact moment I become aware of the nothingness immediately ahead of me and the nothingness directly behind me. And I stop moving because it is possible to do so. And then, I notice. And then, no one else does. Praise be to forced solitude. Praise be to the stubborn efforts of the single degree on a February day. Praise be to moaning because you can, loudly because itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s the only way. Praise be to vanished hair for years, then obvious hair in all places available, then hair gone again. Praise be to the sepsis bacteria you put in your mouth every 12 hours, strengthening the parts that are still alive. Praise be to the Old Rugged Cross showing you where your voice is and Victory In Jesus showing you where it is not. Praise be to the cleansing of bleeding out every 4 weeks. I have carried myself like a man. I have earned the weighted dick hanging from my body, and I have used it. I have been born the problematic luxury of woman, and I have used that too. Praise be to the tongue as witness. Praise be to humping feeling near holy even after youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve had sex one thousand times. Praise be to caffeine as a qualifiable reason to being awake and being awake as a pointless bid to getting paid. Praise be to the anniversary of your arrest and still feeling very close to the person you were six years ago. Praise be to getting away with most. We have all taught people who had nothing better to do with their time. We have all taught them to love. Praise be to the lies everyone helps everyone else spread. Praise be to the unwilling and afraid and notasgood. Praise be to the embarrassingly small universe. Praise be to hustling till the end. Praise be to penetration. Praise be to tastebuds. Praise be to age. Smooth skin across every square inch of my back. I donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t know who taught me to love. I remember feeling alive and then not, all at once.

ď &#x2021;

Mollie Levy-Roseroot

KENTON DEANGELI

THREE SPELLS FOR T H E Y E A R 2016, F O R K AT H L E E N F R A N C E S 63

HOW TO LET GO take a towel, or your own palm wipe up from your neck, over your face, past your forehead shake out your bangs here is a cool hand on your forehead palm first, light fingers on your temple you are drunk. this is how to tell fortunes. close your eyes a flock of birds that in circles coalesce and dissipate in patterns is a murmuration 5,000 years ago royal priests watched them in the sky and knew the future you are pretty drunk african shamans studied the patterns of knuckle bones thrown onto leather. every time you play dice there is a frustrated god trying to tell you itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s going to rain in the entrails of sheep are hidden messages about the rain thatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s kind of gross

it’s like 1 pm and my room has windows ok i got it get your hand off my forehead ok but i got it you’re gonna love it ok what let’s go get stupid tattoos that will stay on our bodies until we die and even after perfect! i’ll tell your fortune right now, you’re fucking drunk and a genius

HOW TO KEEP GOING

2016 is a rat that won’t leave the ship as it sinks is a fail video compilation of you losing your job and apartment on the same sleepless day 2016 is how can i write a poem when the world is falling apart is how can i write a poem at any other time 2016 is finding a klonopin on the floor of the subway when you’ve been holding back a panic attack for two days is a boat burning on the water is the knockout punch before you scrape yourself off the floor, again, unsteadily, drunk 2016 is refusing to stay down is the rumble of the subway that, sleeping, you confuse with the rumble of your own heart

ok how about this, let’s make our own let’s get really drunk, so drunk we forget our own faces and sit in the dark your fingertips on my face and mine on yours and imagine what we look like by feeling the contours, like we were blind. there is the future in your face, in the propinquity of my fingers here the auspices of the ridge of your cheek and the curve of your chin the portent of the corners of your lips, the lashes over your closed eyes

HOW TO HOLD ON

i don’t think they’re gonna let us fuck with their birds

palmistry is kind of boring what about that one where the rooster pecks at different pieces of grain? there’s that shop over on st nicholas. is it going to rain or not?

naked, the light of the moon on your glowing skin, fill a glass jar with boiled water, mint leaves, fresh ginger. breathe in deeply, close your eyes, and tell three lies: one about your mother, one about a dream, and one about a nonexistent pet (like this: my mother is a redheaded bank robber. last night i dreamt i was a whale, and the ocean filled with my singing. i used to own a turtle named tony). dip the end, up to the first knuckle, of the fourth finger from the right of your left hand into the water. the

bright moon in the dark sky is a luminous pill you can swallow that will get you high. with the drops of warm water on the end of the fourth finger of your left hand, draw a rune across your torso. remember this rune. you are forgiven for everything you’ve ever done. blow onto the rune and feel the shape grow cool as it draws power from your own body and the frisson of the night sky. in 16th-century holland a witch sneaks into a house, her fingers, like the old goddess of the dawn, dripping rosewater, and rubs drugs soaked in the juice of her own pussy onto the top lip of a sleeping man. this allows her to steal objects from his home and to enter his dreams. open your eyes. breathe in deeply once more. as the rune fades from your skin, say one true thing, a secret. say this to the night sky and no one else (like this: i’m not sure if i’ve ever been in love). it is now 2016, and you are ready.

if we’re gonna die let’s not die alone if we’re gonna dance let’s dance together if we fall on steps let’s hold each other’s heads in our hands and tell each other we’re crazy and promise we’ll get the charleston right next time there’s too much gravity, here, when we’re not in space, when we’re down here on the floor with the whole heavy earth beneath us if we fall, if we skin our knees let’s lick up the blood and grin mad grins and describe it like wine

if we’re gonna die let’s not die alone

i have a dream of this spaceship that’s fucked but you and your crew promise each other no one will die alone so you gather each other up and fall into the sun together, all at once, all at the same time

rats in the streets mean the city’s not sinking i’m not sinking

2016 is drunk, collapsed on the stairway landing, holding a girl’s head in both of your hands and promising her you’re crazy is a song that won’t leave your head are the corners of your lips, upturned sharp in a dangerous quirk is a smirk that won’t leave your head 2016 is staying afloat is the year you’re still alive 2016 is not leaving is promising the moon every night you’ll never leave it 2016 is a metaphor for those ancient tea cups that break but then get repaired with molten gold poured into the cracks like did you see that buzzfeed article about how they are more beautiful because of that? 2016 i better come out of this shit with gold teeth

THE BUSHWICK REVIEW

Directory of Beautiful and Active Minds

town near Youngstown, Ohio. He has seven books out, his most renowned are The Human War, The Collected Works Volume 1, The Insurgent, and his recent novel called Go to work and do your job. Care for your children. Pay your bills. Obey The Law. Buy products. Photographer Raul Coto-Batres has been documenting the nightlife and bar scene in Bushwick for the past 3 years, collecting interesting people, places and moments through his photographs. raulcotobatres.com

A—D Sarah Jean Alexander wrote Wildlives, which is available at biglucks.bigcartel.com. She lives in Brooklyn with a fluctuating number of roommates and at least 3 cats.

Photos p.22: Photo illustration by Tim Vienckowski, source photo by Per Ole Hagen — p.28: Blanca photo by J. Annie Wang Supplier of houseplants & inspiration Amos Massey III (amosthe third.com)

Brian Amsterdam received his B.A. from The Evergreen State College in Olympia, WA, and is currently pursuing his MFA at Naropa University in Boulder, CO. He has been published in various journals in print and online, including The Room 22, Comma, Poetry, and The Bushwick Review. At the time this was written, Alison Breaden was Alison Shanik, living in Brooklyn as a freelance graphic designer. Her work lives at alisonshanik.com, and she may be emailed at alison.shanik@gmail.com— surely, this is still true. Noah Cicero is 34 years old, and grew up in a small

oscar Bruno d’artois is a poet who recently moved to Berlin from Brooklyn. He enjoys to put a banana in the guacamole. Find him online at oscarbruno dartois.tumblr.com. Kenton deAngeli lives in Bushwick and is working on a new collection of short stories. He would like to thank Toney Palumbo for everything he’s ever done. If you see Kenton on the street, please tell him to get to work. Yell “MORE POETRY, LESS LUSH” until he runs away or becomes your friend. He also has a blog, which can be accessed at yrstruly.org. F—J Lois Farningham currently lives and works in Brooklyn as part time explorer and Art Director for landscape design firm Future Green Studio. With a background in art, landscape, and architecture her projects negotiate the territories of structure and entropy, and collaboration and

agency. loisfarningham. com; tenderproposition. tumblr.com An infuser and lifter of spirits, Zachary Feldman is the restaurant critic for the Village Voice. Kristen Felicetti started the thing you’re holding in your hands right now, The Bushwick Review. Her favorite sandwich from L-Mo’s Market used to be the Brie & Apple, but last month they introduced the kale sandwich (grilled kale, grilled tofu, avocado, supremely spicy hummus, and balsamic vinegar on a hero), and well, GAME OVER. kris10felicetti.com Kathleen Flood is an Omaha native, currently living and working between Williamsburg and Bushwick. By day she “fills holes” on writing, production, and development projects at VICE. By night you can find her practicing yoga, dancing, or hitting on you. Kathleen recently left her heart in San Francisco, and since has been writing angsty, depressing poetry. Kait Heacock thinks of herself as the love child of Anais Nin and Raymond Carver. Her work has appeared in literary journals and websites including KGB Bar Lit Mag, Portland Review, Tin House’s Open Bar blog, tNY.Press’s The Shrug, and Vol. 1 Brooklyn. She is currently at work on a young adult lesbian roller derby noir series. Jenn Hyland lives and drinks in Bushwick, Brooklyn. She is the founder of Bushwick-based art space

and collective Morgan Avenue Underground and is obsessed with her 18lb. cat Tai Juan. K—M Zebadiah Keneally (Hamburger Vampire) is a visual artist living and working in Brooklyn. He has performed at Mixed Greens, the Wassaic Project and on the Manhattan Neighborhood Network. Recent works include production and costume design for Mike Doughty’s rock opera, REVELATION, which premiered at WNYC’s Greene Space. His book of drawings, KILL ALL HIPPIES (published by Endless Editions), is included in the MoMA Library collection. Keneally’s drawings, paintings, sculptures, and books have been shown in New York City, Los Angeles, Detroit, Ho Chi Minh City, and Kuwait City. Mitchell Kuga is a writer and waiter living in Bushwick. He edits SALT, a newspaper about food. Mollie LevyRoseroot is an artist who currently resides in London, where she is getting her Masters in Textile Design. Her fuel when creating is the use of the hand; the act of manual work and craft. She has always appreciated the unappreciated; work by self-taught artists who base their ideas on their surroundings and innate intuition rather than the commercialization of their work. Mollie is originally from Chicago, where she ultimately would like to set up a business of her own in hopes of furthering her love for handmade design.

Brett Masterson is a designer who lives and works in Brooklyn. He spends his days being an architect and his nights painting moonscapes in his baby nursery, which should be occupied by June. The silkscreen BUILDING CONFIGURATIONS is part of a series representing images found in early editions of Graphic Standards, a definitive architectural reference. This work identifies building typologies commonly found in urban areas. N—R Lydia Nichols is a freelance illustrator, designer, and anthropomorphizer. Most people describe her work as whimsical and charming. They describe her as red-headed. Lee Noble (b. 1983, Nashville, TN) is a musician/artist living in Los Angeles. His most recent LP, Ruiner, was released in 2013. Phil Pierce is a musician and songwriter who’s one half of the duo Buffalo Sex Change. buffalosex change.bandcamp.com Michele Rosenthal is a freelance illustrator living in Brooklyn where she blogs about film and queer history, plays trivia enthusiastically but poorly, and drinks a lot of tea. michelerosenthal.com Mike Rosenthal is a writer, cartoonist, and creator of Our New Electrical Morals and Twitter: The Comic. His work has been featured on Cartoon Hangover, College Humor, Salon, the Atlantic, Tech Crunch, and Kotaku. He

lives in a dumpster in Los Angeles.

ISSUE SUMMER 2016

S—Z Carabella Sands was a cute baby. To look at her cute baby pictures, check out her tumblr: carabella sands.tumblr.com. Lucy K Shaw is the author of The Motion (421 Atlanta, 2015) and the founding editor of Shabby Doll House. She lives in Berlin. Thom Smith is a recently licensed architect who lives in New Orleans. He served in Americorps with Rebuilding Together, renovated Katrinadamaged houses for low income homeowners, and stayed. Thom would like you to consider planning a visit soon. For more images: flickr.com/photos/ tomtomklub Tim Vienckowski is Associate Art Director of Popular Mechanics Magazine and proud co-parent to a high-achieving aquatic snail named Helen Hunt. He’s designed the last three Bushwick Reviews and hopes you didn’t have to look too hard for the page numbers this time. timtimtimtim.com Julia Lines Wilson loves structure, process and material. Trained in textiles and sculpture, she also works with a variety of artists to help create their work.

THE BUSHWICK REVIEW

Index

Aaliyah �� 23 alcohol ��5, 20, 31, 33, 39, 42, 58, 63 Alexander, Sarah Jean �� 60-61 Allen, Woody �� 21 Amsterdam, Brian �� 46, 48-49 Antarctica �� 24-25 Berlin ��57 bodegas �� see dining bodies of water �� 12, 24-27, 42, 56-57, 65 bones ��6, 23, 63 boners �� 23, 28 Breaden, Alison ��50-51 Brown, James ��28 cartography �� 25-27, 31 cats �� 45, 58-59 Cicero, Noah �� 11-12 Coto-Batres, Raul �� 8-9, 52-53 death ��see strife drugs �� 21, 57, 64 dining carry-out �� 11, 30-33 sit-down ��26-28 D’Artois, Oscar Bruno ��57-59 DeAngeli, Kenton �� 63-65 England ��7 fan fiction �� 14-23 Farningham, Lois �� 24-27 Feldman, Zachary ��28 Felicetti, Kristen �� ∞, 30-33 Flood, Kathleen �� 13 Gerwig, Greta �� 12 Great Gatsby, The ��57 Heacock, Kait �� 42 Hyland, Jenn �� 59-60 illustration architectural ��44 collage �� 4, 26-27, 47, 54-56, 62 comics �� 14-19, 29 photo illustration �� 13, 22 religious/feline ��43, 45 incarceration ��42, 61 Internet, the Craigslist �� 11-12 e-mail �� 12 emoji �� 13 emoticon ��58 # �� 13 Instagram �� 20, 59 Yelp, something resembling �� 30-33 YouTube �� 11 J, LL Cool �� 20 Kelela �� 20 Keneally, Zebadiah �� 29 Kraftwerk �� 14-19 Kuga, Mitchell ��20-23 Leung, Tony �� 33

Levy-Roseroot, Mollie �� 4, 62 lies �� 7, 61, 64 Masterson, Brett ��44 Miguel �� 23 Mirarchi, Carlo ��28 moon, the �� 46, 48, 64 Nevada �� 12 New Mexico �� 12 New Orleans �� 34-41 New York City Bushwick �� 8-9, 20-23, 28-33, 52-53 Not Bushwick �� 24-27 portrayal of as sinking ship �� 24-27, 33, 65 Nichols, Lydia �� 45 Noble, Lee �� 54-55 O’Hara, Frank �� 59 Rilke, Rainer Maria �� 59 rituals alectryomancy ��64 chanting �� 42 dance �� 8-9, 15, 18-20, 38-39, 65 gnosticism ��49 haruspicy �� 63 hymns �� 61 hypnotism ��50-51 lingchi �� 59 occult, the �� 48, 63-65 palmistry ��64 parade �� 34-41 rural �� 42 shamanism �� 63 Ocean, Frank ��20-23 Paris ��5-7 photography �� 8-9, 28, 30, 32, 34-41, 52-53 Pierce, Phil ��47, 56 poetry �� 11-13, 28, 46, 48-49, 57-65 prose ��5-7, 20-24, 31-33, 42 relationships beginning of �� 5-7, 13, 20-23, 42, 52-53 end of ��12, 20-23 somewhere in the middle of �� 59 Rosenthal, Michele �� 14-19 Rosenthal, Mike �� 14-19 Sands, Carabella �� 43 sexuality embrace of �� 15, 20-23, 49, 61 rejection of �� 11 Shaw, Lucy K ��5-7 Smith, Thom �� 34-41 Solange �� 20 strife mental �� 13, 63-64 physical �� 13, 57  ��5, 42, 49, 57, 58, 65 swine ��28, 57 textile design ��4, 10, 62 Winehouse, Amy �� 11 Vienckowski, Tim �� ∞ Wilson, Julia Lines �� 10

FEATURING �� CONTRIBUTIONS BY

S a ra h J e a n A l e x a n d e r, Brian Amsterdam, Alison Bre aden, Noah Cicero,

Raul

Coto-Batres, Oscar Bruno D’Artois, Kenton DeAngeli, Lois Farningham, Zachary

Fe l d m a n , K r i s t e n

Felicetti, Kathleen

Flood,

Kait Heacock, Jenn Hyland, Zebadiah Keneally, Mitchell Kuga, Mollie Levy-Roseroot,

Br e t t

Masterson, Lydia Nichols, Lee Noble, Phil Pierce,

M i c h e l e

Rosenthal,

Mike Rosenthal,

Carabella

S a n d s , L u cy K .

Shaw, Thom Smith, Tim Vienckowski, and Julia Lines Wilson