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Welcome, one and all, to the fourth issue of The Radvocate! If you’ve followed our issues before, you can see that the progress in contributions and formatting with each new issue. This is not just us; it is our contributors and you, the reader, which help us make such an excellent publication. Without your readership, this would not exist, and the world would be a much more boring place, I imagine. But the public has spoken; the world wants the Rad so we’re here to give it to them. With each new issue, we try to make things a little bit different and incorporate ideas that may seem a little unorthodox. This time around, we have added our first interactive correspondent’s column, started by Erin Grant from Minnesota. This column won’t work unless we get some responses at our e-mail, so please remember to send replies! Thanks to our readers and vendors, we can continue to bring you awesome stuff like this well into the future. Our amazing cover for this issue (possibly the only reason you picked this up) is courtesy of Sean Sagawa, a San Diego-based artist and Rad contributor from the beginning. His incredible work and dedication to his craft is a testament, not just to him, but everyone like him who contributes to our zine. These are artists that are incredibly talented and make The Radvocate what it is, which most the time is out of sheer charity. Of course, we offer exposure, but what they offer is so much more, regardless of the medium. I tip my hat to all of these beautiful people and their dedication. We’re here, we’re rad, get used to it. - Ed.


Q: What is your name or title of preference? A: Soun Dai. Q: How did Soun Daiism come about? A: It came about over the summer when I was in a sense of long meditation, day after day. At one point I saw a vision of the name for my new self that had come to be. Q: You have a YouTube channel (The Soundai) to convey the message to a worldwide audience. What are your hopes as far as responses with this medium? A: It has been spread with my word of potion as well as the cyber way of communication. Q: Does Soun Daiism share qualities with mainstream religions, or are its teachings completely new? A: It’s congruent with what was mainstream religion to a degree and others that have been, because I have evolved from the knowledge of them, of what was. The religions that have been have not evolved enough, in this sense I am presenting something that is the evolution of Buddhism to a higher state of being. I am the continuation of him and the legacy of all those who have taught to clear the mind from the visions and voices within. An avatar is one that takes from all religion and becomes what is correct, transcending in those characters because they are real selves. I am this from all I have known. Q: How do the teachings of Soun Daiism relate to the modern world?


A: The neo teachings of Soun Daiism are a secret for now in limitation until copyright is done. For a literal explanation, I have developed a perfect way for humans to take on the characteristics of real comic superheroes and beings they have dreamed within movies. At one point I realized this was so because I began to emanate laser beams out of my eyes. I realized that this was needed because of the dimension of the third eye became so intelligent for me that the matter in front of me, was literally in the way and the only way to see in the physical dimension, perfectly was to use this element. This principle power was one of a light force in a geometric way to remove dark matter from the body. It goes beyond this, extremely unto a formula of multiplied self through the momentum of archetypes. The 12 levels of Soun Daiism are the archetypes I have designed within my eye around my body which do exist now because I see them in this dual dimension. I have drawn them on paper to register them internationally that they may be spread as Leonardo Da Vinci has had done with his in this era. They will confuse the dark religions of the world which have been Christianity as well as the leaders of any religion which has been closely, same. They relate to the modern world by realizing that they are at the top of the intellectual, spiritual world of quantum physics for the human, meditative self.

Q: Does Soun Daiism embrace any sort of political thinking or distance itself from that? A: Everything which has been and is, is political. There is no separation in this definition from religion. Q: What are your greatest hopes for the future of this religion? A: As I exist, it will take hold upon the world of souls because it has a magnetic purpose to achieve. It must destroy what has caused the darkness on the earth. The "V." Q: How can people learn more and get more involved with Soun Daiism? A: They need to study my matter and then reach me. Contact.


It all started when Kyle mailed me a martini shaker. He said it was for my birthday, which is in December, and the shaker arrived mid-February. But it was a brand new martini shaker nevertheless. “Here’s to make you a REAL writer,” he wrote in green sharpie on the makeshift cardboard packaging. Straight from Oakland, California. Only Kyle. You see, Kyle has a special relationship with the martini. I recall a time, several months ago, when my old friend was living in a co-op house in the East Bay. He had just been fired, again, for being a stubborn loud-mouthed rock & roller, again. He had little money, was uncertain about next month’s rent, and survived primarily off of grits and butter. He lived in a cold spare room furnished with nothing but a bed, a Beatles poster, and his pride and joy: a free craigslist roll-top desk upon which sat his coveted martini set. At the end of a long day of unemployment, with a Jaguar guitar on his lap and a spliff in his hand, Kyle would smooth-over the subtleties of modern college drop-out living with an artisan martini, made exactly to his specifications. So, of course, Kyle mailed me a martini shaker. It was like getting a lawn bowling set from your grandpa. Sure, it looks fun, but where does one begin? I wasn’t even sure, strictly speaking, what constituted a true martini. I had heard that using vodka was a faux-pas, though I didn’t know why. I also knew it involved olives. Kyle had had the foresight to include a jar of Santa Barbara habanero-stuffed green olives – the best he had come across, according to an enclosed note. But beyond that, I was lost. I’ve never ordered a martini. I mean, I don’t want to look like a jerk. Who drinks martinis? The last time I saw one ordered was around noon in a dim Portland bar off Burnside. The guy was in a full suit and apparently in shambles. Had his wife left him for a Swiss parachute instructor? Had his revolutionary invention, Das Fön, finally been debunked as just another Spork pretender? Was he mortally ill?


I watched the broke-down businessman drink five martinis in silence-tipping too much, fiddling with his Blackberry, sighing - and the association has stuck ever since. Martinis are where once-sprightly entrepreneurs go to die. Or at least regroup. Like my good friend Kyle. The martini says, “I may have lost everything except the shirt on my back, but, goddamnitall, I’ve still got my class!” I asked my friend Leif about the proper method in preparing the beverage. Leif knows things. He said that I’d need a bottle of gin and some vermouth. Simple enough. However, his direction to simply “rinse” the glass with one form of booze (the vermouth), discarding the remnants only to fill the glass with another (the gin) aroused a deep-rooted contempt within me. I thought back to my college days in Humboldt. It seemed like just about everybody had a vaporizer, back then. Once one had finished smoking their high-velocity homegrown ganja, they would tap the ashen remains into a coffee can. When the can was full, they would bake a cake and get the whole block stoned. Surely I could come to a similar arrangement with the martini. But the thought of a coffee can full of liquor was a bit too bohemian for me at the time, and besides, who’s ever heard of a vermouth cake? I soon learned that this approach produces what one calls an “extra dry” or “Gibson” martini. My main problem with the whole thing, I suppose, circled around the empirical exactness of it all. One drop too much of either component spoils the grand alchemy of the drink, according to most. It’s a connoisseur’s cup, I quickly discovered, and that did not sit well with me. I am a Sagittarius. Ask anybody who knows what that means and they will tell you that I’ve never read a recipe, never consulted an instruction manual, and most certainly have never, ever calculated ratios of booze in a drink. I’m a man of instinct.


The entire notion of the martini insulted the better senses in me. So I took the next best route: utterly uninformed improvisation. I’ve always liked tequila because it gets me naked in no time. I decided, sure, swish the tequila around the glass. But don’t be a fool. Leave the juice in there. Let it do its thing. I called it the Cheswick Martini, and I thought it was a pretty clever name. It implied, like the characters in “One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest,” a certain derangement which, I assumed, would complement the effects of the drink.

I threw a small party in order to showcase my pet beverage. We cooked Italian food and garnished our drinks with cayenne pickled garlic. It was awful. Still, we were hightingled in no time and soon wandered off into the booming club district of Hillcrest. We smuggled some of the sauce in a Nalgene. Someone had the epiphany of dubbing it a Communitini. We ended up in the Brass Rail. ‘80s night. The DJ played “Let’s Hear it for the Boys” and the shirtless bartender served dollar drinks, his steel nipple rings shimmering in the strobe light. I went out to the porch for a cigarette. A girl in spastic red hair grabbed my cigarette and puffed on it as if it was the most natural thing in the world. Like we were on our way to elope in Reno and, of course, she always takes a drag without asking. She blew a cloud of smoke in my face and went for my drink. “I’m Kiki,” she said, killing my gin and tonic. I was quickly falling in love with her. I envisioned us robbing banks together, sharing fifths of mescal in the Nevada badlands at midnight, driving with the top down. I sensed she might pick my pocket when I wasn’t looking, and it thrilled me. We would become impromptu yacht pirates and blast “My Generation” at all times, eating ceviche with orange deep into the warm Caribbean night.


Granted, spontaneous romance was the last thing I’d expected from arguably the gayest bar in San Diego. But when Kiki (probably no one has known her true name since she was seventeen) grabbed my hand and pulled me to the dance floor I became like a puppy – submissive, obedient, excitable. She tore off my shirt and guided me to the stripper pole, where I threw my legs around her neck and spun with arched back while Michael Jackson sang about illegitimate offspring. We laughed insanely as we stumbled down the sidewalk to her house. This is it, I thought. The woman of my dreams. When we got in the door she thrust an acoustic guitar into my hands. “Play something,” she commanded. Kiki went to the kitchen, the metaphysical scandal of her hair-do trailing behind like an auto fire. I heard her open the cupboards and crack an ice tray. “So, love,” she said with an air of conspiracy. “How do you take your martini?


"As a young person growing up amongst a family of creative individuals it has been no surprise that I have grown up to become the open minded and creatively driven person I am today. My life story has so far seen me dabble in many different medium's in an attempt to express myself and explore my own creativity, but such mediums have only been the roads that have led to a more indefinite passion that I have for photography. My photography covers many areas and subjects from the action sports photography that has taken me so far to the urban exploration that has put me into some the nation’s most eerie locations. The thing that remains throughout is that like any other creative outlet I've had before photography is my way of expressing myself in the purest form and the thing that makes it the definitive way of expressing myself? Well, it’s all about capturing the perfect moment"

“Zak” – Sam Cooper Photography


“A Market Scene” – Sam Cooper Photography


“Matt Alway – Vertical Makio” – Sam Cooper Photography


This is part of an ongoing forum that Erin is starting. Respond to it at the email address below, and your replies (as well as hers) will be printed in Issue #5. Get involved and make your voice heard!

As I enter into my final year of college as a photography major, I've been working on a year long body of work. Not unlike previous bodies of work I have created, I've centralized my thesis around memory. Albeit, this time around I'm starting to take a critical look on how photographs play a role in recalling our memories. I've always had a longing to understand the stories and events that occurred before I was born. I've collected and inherited all of my grandmother’s old photo albums. These albums span from her time overseas, stationed in Guam and Japan during the Korean War, to albums documenting and cataloguing her intimate time with family and friends on vacations, and during celebrations. The more I viewed these images, the more I became stuck on the notion of the only images documented and catalogued in these albums were good times, even in light of war. In my experience, and I can only assume as our culture as a collective, the act of displaying images in a family album excludes painful, or traumatic events that have occurred over the span of a families' past. For instance, when paging through one of your photo albums, it would be highly uncommon to see images of death, divorce, chemical dependence, or anything including that sort of painful nature. It seems that the family photo album exists to glorify the human experience.


There was once a time, when photography had just come about, it was deemed socially acceptable to photograph a dead loved one to put it on display in the home. These images are referred to as Post-mortem photographs, and depict the deceased individual in life-like poses. This practice was highly common in upper-middle to upper class families who could afford the luxury of commissioning portraits. The images were important to families because it was a way to commemorate the ones they had lost.

“Jamie” – Sam Cooper Photography With the history of photography in mind, I'm interested in how our visual display of traumatic events has shifted over the years. We now categorize photographs taken into many different photographic practices: Photojournalism, landscape, portrait, commercial, fine art, snapshot. The list goes on and on. What is deemed socially acceptable to photograph in documentary photography or photojournalism may not be equally accepted to be put on display in a family album. So how this all ties into my curiosities of photographs playing a role in our memory is this: Are the memories of our past persuaded by the content of our collection of photographs? If we only document and catalogue the good times in the duration of our lives, will we look back and have a skewed recollection of events that occurred in our personal histories? I'm interested in what your opinions are on these questions. If you'd like to share your thoughts, e mail me a response to: erin.r.grant@gmail.com


“Zombie Vomit” artwork by Sean Sagawa


“We need a writer or something, you know?” “Well, hey, I’m a writer” “Yeah, but we need one. You won’t write about this. We need someone to write about us, about the crazy shit that we do” Max leaned against the back wall of the warehouse, Solo cup in hand. It was dusk and the sun was still softly lighting the small alleyway, with the fluorescent yellow lighting just starting to make its first appearance. The collection of people who had come for Carlson’s party were milling about around the old picnic tables, gas grill, and skate boxes that had become makeshift furniture. “So how’s the music thing going?” The last I had heard from him (and through unintentional facebook observations), Max was making his way as a drum and bass DJ. He sighed, “Well, it’s okay. I don’t really have regular shows anymore, except for one later this month. It’s been tough. Drum and bass is a really small community, and it has a small scene that’s pretty much unknown to people on the outside of it. It’s like rollerblading, you

know? There’s not…” “But you have some gigs downtown, right? I thought I saw a flyer for you playing at El Dorado”. He peered at me quizzically from under his worn leather fendora. “El Dorado? No, man, I did a long time ago…” suddenly his tone shifted to annoyed explanation. “I don’t play Dub Dorado, if that’s what you mean. I do Drum and bass, not Dubstep. They’re different” “No, I know they’re different. I wasn’t talking about that. I thought I saw a flyer for you, specifically, playing there. Or was it the Kaden?” He looked down thoughtfully. The conflict of did-I-or-didn’t-I was playing out in his head. “No, not the Kaden” he said with finality. “Do you mean the Cow Shed?” A lot of the conversations that night went like this. It had been quite a while since I had seen a lot of the people here. We would get into these impasse conversations where either I was misinformed or they were misinformed.


We would go back and forth until the offending party silently conceded, and hoped that changing the subject would put the awkwardness to rest. Sometimes it did. Other times…well. The sun had gone down now and the concrete alley was bathed in dark yellow light. Plates of hot dogs were being carried on the grill and left on the tables, where only one or two off the top were taken by the small percentage that was hungry. It was an odd crowd. There were a lot of people who had joined ‘the circle’ here that I had never met. When I would ask Geoff about some of these folks it was no help. I pointed to a particularly young-looking kid on skates and asked “Who is that?” He simply looked at me incredulously and said, “Tom” Oh yeah, Tom. Of course. How could I forget? Thanks Geoff. Even though everyone supposedly knew each other here, groups of three or four people were huddled around each other. They would talk, but not to others. Maybe because a lot of the girls here were the random high school girls who brought their sullen, anti-social high school boyfriends with the

prospects of free booze? After all, in their environment they were already at the top of the heap. There was no need to socialize with people they didn’t know. They were content to fill a cup with half way with beer and foam, show off their crisp New Era hats or latest tattoo additions, and occasionally glance around. There was music (dubstep, of course) booming in muffled tones from the door of the small skate park at the end of the alley. There were a few people in there skating. They weren’t showing off to anyone in particular, but just seemed to prefer doing this than hang out outside. Matt (Morrison) was up on the deck and gave a friendly wave down. I was trying to pump the keg under the deck. What the fuck happened to this thing? I got about 2/3’s of a cup of beer and decided that it was the best I would get. Something had fucked up the tap. It was bobbing in the ice filled tub like a cruel Titanic that would sink with all its alcoholic secrets. “I’ll find a wrench, maybe I can fix it” Geoff said when I got outside.


He left me with Liz. She was just happy to have any beer, after a few days of flu-symptom hell. We talked about Switzerland for a little while, but I noticed Julian was acing strange. Well, stranger than normal. “What’s going on with that guy?” she asked me. I had seen him when I came in, and he seemed normal, if not a little faded. Now he seemed to be tripping around the alleyway, with the serious expression of not knowing where he was. Apparently he was on mushrooms, which I gained from the bemused comments from the people around. He probably heard the snickers and, feeling hurt or paranoid (or both) staggered somewhere around the corner out of sight. U single. Y u no mingle? Geoff and Liz had gone to the skate room to fix the keg. I looked around and spotted two girls sitting alone on the skate box opposite the grill and introduced myself. One was very petite, dark hair and big eyes. Her friend had a lighter complexion and wasn’t big by any means, but even I looked chunky compared to this girl (editor’s note: I’m not) I think they were first year students in college…or around that age, anyway. It was hard to tell; they were very cryptic about it.

For example: Me: “So, who do you guys know here? Did you come with those girls?” Petite girl: “No, we don't know them. Well, we only know one or two people, I think” Me: “Oh, that guy, over there?” Other girl: “No, not him. We don’t know him. But we’d like to know him” Me: “Ah, I see! So you came here to meet people?” Petite girl: “No, not really”

Yeesh. Keep in mind that despite what it sounds like, I wasn’t trying to interrogate them or anything. I was just trying to make conversation. Somehow ‘conversation’ became a strange philosophical discussion on the level of “That depends on the definition of the word, ‘is’”. I used a remark about the city of Austin with the other girl to escape the confusing circle. I saw a few people gathered on the end of the alley in my peripheral. I glanced and saw that Julian had made his way up the overhanging tree. He was clinging to it and talking down to them in a way that was strangely both manic and calm. “What are you doing in the tree, dude?”


“I don’t know” he would answer with an amused smirk, “What are you doing on the ground?” He had become the Cheshire Cat with an XL t-shirt and rosary necklaces. I went back to the picnic tables to get a hot dog. Geoff and Liz were enjoying some fresh carne tacos. They were chatting with Brian about using Andy’s new truck to go on some kind of camping trip, and I talked with Matt about finding an artist for the Phish article he wants to write. In the midst of conversation, we began to hear strange muffled shouts over the grinding dubstep emanating from the back. Was it part of the music? Maybe. No, wait, there was too much inconsistency. “Does someone have a microphone back there?” Liz asked. We went inside to find almost everybody (mostly the females) standing at the bottom of the deck and looking up at the grind box. Matt, Russell, Birthday-Boy Carlson and some guy I didn’t know were all standing on the top deck, shirtless and sweating buckets.

Obviously an impromptu blade contest had started and all the young girls had come in to giggle and stare at the shirtless older guys. It turned out the voice on the microphone was Louie. Doing his best Mark Shays impression, he ohhhhhhhed over the crowd, shouting trick names and 3-2-1 countdowns. Suddenly, there was a commotion at the door and I

heard someone falling over. It was Julian, who had seen the ‘contest’ starting up, put on his rainbow colored skates and was determined to join them. He tore off his shirt and whizzed past us, this time with a vision of pure manic energy shooting out of his eyes. Uh-oh. Louie announced him coming up the ramp, even though it was indecipherable over the grating dubstep. Julian had his tongue out and ran up clapping his hands, obviously enjoying the attention but not


Artwork by STRNGLV


really understanding why he had it. He thought they were juiced to see him skating, but the piranha-like crowd had swelled at the prospect of seeing blood. When he got to the top, the other guys moved quickly out of his way, as if to absolve themselves of the responsibility. He put his back to the left corner, looked up, pushed off with his hands, and jumped. He grinded backwards smoothly down the box with an ally-oop fishbrain and landed forward with a confident, oily style. First try. Of course, even the people who didn’t know what was going on cheered and gave it up for him. Julian raced back to the top of the ramp, bowing like a true showman. I guess I had it all wrong. He wasn’t the crazy drug freak who charges to the top of a building with paper wings on his arms. Instead, he was like the guy from the bridge scene in Apocalypse Now, the one who mortars a Viet Cong blindly in the dark. He would awaken from his Hendrix-blasting psychedelic mindset, and silently and coldly land a perfect hit. “Mutha fucka” They all continued to skate and land tricks, having the full attention of the crowd. “Can you believe that?” I

would ask the long-haired guy next to me. “I could never do that, let alone on shrooms!” “Yeah,” he responded, “I could never do that right now” “Yeah…wait, what? Are you on mushrooms too?” He looked over with a glazed expression, smiling weakly. “Yeah, man” Huh. I walked over to the petite girl I met earlier. “Wow, apparently that guy is on shrooms too. Weird, huh?” She stared at me with a confused look. “Yeah, he got them from me. Didn’t you get any?” “What?! Is everyone here on mushrooms?!” “Yeah, probably” What is this, an M. Night Shamaylan movie? Am I the only one left? Was this the Invasion of the Mushroom People? It certainly explained the weird behavior of a lot of the people here, but…I looked over at Geoff and tapped my wrist. He saw me and nodded. At least they hadn’t gotten to him yet. He was the driver, after all. I went around saying my goodbyes, but got mostly fragmented responses. But now, I understood why. It was time to go. As we drove away, I thought about what Max had said. Yeah, okay. This wasn't a particularly interesting or exciting event (albeit weird), but I guess that even isolated affairs like this


need someone to document them. Otherwise, who would ever know what had happened? I've seen video edits of this event and they might as well have been from a different planet. Crazy shit? Maybe not. But the need is there. Stuff like this needs to have the details recorded, the feelings imparted, and the images exposed. Weird, but not nearly weird enough to be made up. Well, Max, here you go. You guys got yourself a writer.

Artwork by Todd McInerney


So Plateaus officially started a little over a year ago. Our first show was January 29th, but it unofficially started a little earlier than that. Before we all got together, Kevin (Gist) and Jon (Greene) had been playing music together while I was living in Brooklyn. They recorded 3 songs that would later be released on our first 7" on the Art Fag label. When I heard them in NY, I was obsessed with them and started to think about coming back (to San Diego) to play music with Kevin and Jon. Even though it was about 6 months into my lease agreement, I decided that I did want to come back to San Diego.

I literally called Kevin and Jon every week, counting down to the date when I would be back and insisting on starting a band together. I got back in November of last year (2010) and we started practicing 2 days after i got back. Shortly after we started practicing, we called on our close friend Elliot Moeller to play bass. Once he was in, Plateaus was officially a band! Some of out influences are The Clean, The Tronics, Guided by Voices, The Stooges, Phil Spector, Jon Meek, and of course, beer and weed. (Little back story here: Kevin, Elliott, and myself all work together at Pizzeria Luigi in Golden Hill)


So now we are a band! We’re practicing a shit load and playing as many shows as we can. The Beach Coma 7" came out on Art Fag in the spring, in the summer we did a West Coast tour with Bleached and Heavy Hawaii. As you would assume, it was totally insane and we all had a very good time. Then in October, we took a trip to NYC to play a few shows for the CMJ music marathon. After the tour, we recorded the songs for 2 different 7"s that will be coming out in early 2012. The two 7"s will each be released from different labels, one on Art Fag and one for Hozac. We are really looking forward to those coming out! As of now, we are working on our Full Length LP that will be released on Art Fag later in 2012. We plan on doing a tour this spring, as well as a trip to SXSW. - Chris Rosi


It’s not cold out and I like wearing jackets. That's why I told you not to be so hard on yourself. you don't say ditto. Seems I'm no longer good at this game. Never wanted to be perfectly exact. Always have stood a bit to the left. Not so far off when I was with you. Maybe you've got it wrong. All this fuss and no one even likes the moldy middle. I do prefer the way-ay'side better. It's like that one summer I wrote my name on the sand wall with your brother. Your name should have been there too, but walking my direction has never quite been your style. I tell myself - as long as it's still you - and wait. Wait next to a different jacket, a new smell, lighter eyes, and a bigger grin - then you say some things never change. Has your timing always been this perfect? I can't say I'm worried about it. --Far from gravity things are right, far from everyone else's crusty centers. I am not left or right, just right - somewhere other than where the day places me to be. There is no need for useless thought in dreams - but sometimes you are there anyways. I haven't decided this yet to be more or less than the other. But isn't that the best position for me to be in. - I'd say. But I don't look for elsewhere. I can't look elsewhere. Kinda hard when whites don't show. -- No difference anyways – there's no other elsewhere even when they do. But now. After this long, I would debate being able to validate the last lines truth. Whether here or there, I can only believe in one truth. He is, and can only be good at two things -anything and everything he tries, and one other thing.


Artwork by Sean Sagawa


The Radvocate Issue #4  

http://www.theradvocateisamagazine.com/Media/Default/Archives/R4ArchiveVersion.pdf

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