The Radvocate Issue #9 Brian Krans
Sean Andress (cover art)
Thomas Martin Joey McGarry Anthony Muni Jr.
Bruce Bales Editor â€“ Matt Lewis
Sunny Katz Kevin Yee Matt Lewis Bruce Bales Ayahuasca Publishing 3245 University Ave. Ste.1430 San Diego, CA 92104
Sunny Katz Pietro Firrincieli Kevin Yee Thomas Martin Allie Brosh (above image)
www.theradvocateisamagazine.com * email@example.com
Hey all, Welcome to another edition of The Radvocate! It’s been a hectic few months, but we were able to pull in some amazing artists, writers and poets for our 9th issue. I’m extremely proud of how this one turned out, and can’t thank all the contributors enough for their efforts. I think all of our issues are special in their own way (as a parent of millenials would say), but believe me when I say you’re in for a treat! Speaking of special issues, can you believe that are next one is going to be number ten!? How did that happen? It seems like the years have flown by! We have some cool stuff in store for number ten, and you will be quite surprised when you see our changes for that one…that’s all I can say for now. But here’s some awesome news: you, yes you, have a chance to be a part of our 10th issue! Unbelievable, you say? Inconceivable, you shout? I say no, it’s true! As with every issue, we are accepting submissions of art, poetry and writing year-round. If we dig your stuff, we would love to feature it and help get your name out there in the field of your passion. Our goal with every issue is to feature the work of folks who just don’t have the connections or competitive edge to get published in “real magazines”, whatever that means. We put out our issues in print because we love the feel and aesthetic of the printed page. And, because we’re not a monolithic publishing conglomerate, we don’t have to worry about depending on massive numbers to keep ourselves afloat. Yay, e-books! OBLITERATE THE BLOATED, GREEDY SLUGS OF PUBLISHING AND WE WILL BATHE, VICTORIOUSLY, IN THEIR INK!!!!! …ahem. Anyway, hope you enjoy issue #9! Thanks again!
After the gypsy lifestyle we experienced in Lausanne, I was quite ready for our trip to Lyon. Etienne had promised that since Thomas’ apartment would be full, we would be able to stay with his Grandmother who lived in the city. Running water? Old School French-Grandma cooking? Yes, please! But before we could get to this oasis, we had to take the long, gray drive to Lyon which culminated in pouring rain once we arrived. “Don’t worry” Salim said, “the skatepark we’re going to is indoors” Well, great. Can’t wait to skate again after drinking all night and sleeping outside. In the meantime, though, I got to enjoy the driving tour of the city center. The downtown area had a lot of renaissance-era architecture alongside contemporary buildings, but the two styles weren’t as stark as they were in Paris. They played well off each other, and it was a legitimate urban center with awesome aesthetics. One thing I hadn’t seen before here were these white stickers with black type, which had a random name and a phone number, were EVERYWHERE. They were stuck to every street sign, every wall, and every fence, sometimes piled on top of each other up to an inch thick! I asked Etienne what they were and he said they were stickers advertising hookers. Apparently, in Lyon they’re allowed to promote prostitution with a viral marketing campaign; think the newsstand/magazine boxes on the Las Vegas strip, it’s basically the same idea. When we got to this indoor skatepark, I noticed a poster promoting a scooter contest near the entrance. It was a photo of some kid doing a scooter air at the Ocean Beach skatepark; a park that was less than 20 minutes away from where I lived. That seemed to be both amusing and ominous simultaneously. Once we got in, we met up with Fritz and Josh, two Texan bladers who had been travelling all across Europe for the last few months. It was nice to see and talk with some fellow countrymen, even if we didn’t have a whole lot to talk about. The park itself was strange, because it seemed like something that should have been fun. It was older (probably built in the 90’s), wood, and had some cool looking mini-ramps and stuff. But once I got out into it, I realized that this wasn’t going to be a good time. The ramps were way too angled, and it felt like my neck would snap back going up and down them every time.
The mini ramp was alright, but had way more space in between the two sides than I was used to. Also, it had a deck in the middle when you came off the right side (the mini in Bercy had this too), so any lines I could think of were completely thrown off. If you were good enough, you could gap over this deck to the other side and keep going, but of course that was beyond me. I tried to make the best of it with the lame mono-rolls over the deck, but pretty much couldn’t lock anything that wasn’t a frontside. I decided this would be a good time to take a break and watch everyone else from the upper deck. In the upper deck, the guys who had been hit the hardest with their hangovers were attempting to sleep it off. Vlad was completely obscured by a blanket, while Mathieu and Charlie were wearing dark glasses and talking shit to the skaters below. I got a cappuccino from a machine down the hall and settled in to watch. Later, the park closed and the rain started to pour, so Etienne and I broke off from the group. Etienne took us to his grandma’s apartment building, near the center of the city. Miraculously, he found another parking spot for the giant van, once again on the street adjacent to the building. I’m telling you, the guy has a gift. We were greeted with open arms. The apartment was draped in a typical Grandma décor, with stained-glass lamps, pictures of babies, and doilies all around. It was exactly what I needed: an oasis of warm
privacy in the ocean of chaos. We had a huge dinner of tender beef with gravy, fresh radishes, steaming carrots, green beans and potatoes with herbs all cooked in the old-school, traditional French way. Hot, crusty bread with butter and lots of wine were a given. It was incredible! It reminded me of the old legends of weary travelers who luck out and get invited to dine with the king for an evening. I tried my best to compliment her and the food in my limited French, but the looks of confusion made me think that smiling and nodding was a more easily-translated form of praise. After dinner (and dessert, of course) I was quite ready for bed. But Etienne wanted to visit some friends who lived down the street, and asked if I wanted to go. Sure, why not? Once we got to their apartment, we relaxed and drank beer with the young couple while Etienne caught up with them.
Apparently this guy used to blade as well, and every now and then they would load up another few minutes of the Vine Street video (which was being released in short pieces online) and mention Charlie’s name. Did they mean the Charlie from this trip, or someone else? I wouldn’t find out until I got home and saw clips of Charlie – yes, the same Charlie – in a different part of the Vine Street video. Apparently he had gone to Australia fairly recently to hang out with those guys. After an hour or two, we said goodbye and got back to Grandma’s place. I had the privilege of my own bedroom and bathroom for the night, because Etienne was going to stay at Thomas’s. What kindness! What comfort! What luxury! I don’t even get those kind of amenities at home! I accepted their graciousness and almost immediately passed out on the bed, perfectly content. I woke up well-rested and relaxed. When I looked out the window, it was the set from a Truffaut film: rooftops and buildings jammed against each other with a gray, yet pleasant, sky overhead. I took shower and changed, but felt like I was at an impasse: I didn’t want to walk into the kitchen or do anything wake up Etienne’s Grandma. What would I do, then? Turn on the TV? Was that imposing? I hung out in the room until I heard the sound of movement on the other side of the door. Okay, that should either be Etienne or Grandmere. I stepped out the door and…oh. Sitting on a chair was not my friend or his Grandma, but a girl, about my age. She turned to me and smiled slightly. “Bonjour” I stammered, trying not to sound like an idiot. To be continued in Issue #10!
Kevin Yee has stopped by for the evening. He’s been up for 48 hours on low doses of mushrooms but he can’t stay away from my weed. He brought beer and discussion, so he can stay as long as he wants. “Oh, Patti Smith was such a catch in her day” he says. “Look at her. She’s such a babe” He tries to shout quotes over the sounds of Smith and my Smith-Corona, but I’m not about transcribing what he wants to say. He jams to more Smith while I type and he rolls the next spliff. He passes it to me. I can’t thank him more. He swivels in my red chair and writes what he’s thinking. He’s yelling questions at me. They’re about how he inspired my return to skating. A few of his fingernails are painted, the same I used to paint mine in high school to make others uncomfortable. However, his sea-foam green shade matches this typewriter, so there can’t be more of a beat feeling behind these words. Kevin Yee has the possibility to be the Neil Cassidy of rollerblading. He’s inspired more in weird terms the amount even the drugs he’s on now could inspire your feet behind rollerblades. It’s Jan. 7, 2013 and we’re in San Francisco. Rollerblading is alive and well. Kevin plays some weird fucking music. “Hold on, dog,” he says, “I got some shit for ya, dog.”
“Hard Water Curtain 3”
A Quiet Leaving I remember little of how I walked away past the burnt out light bulbs and chipping paint. I can not recall how fast I was moving or what I heard. I just kept moving past the green and gold carpet and the weathered wooden floorboards.
Drought Even in the clouded moonlight we are bathed by the sun. The clouds move fast. The crickets match their pace, surrounded by slowly swaying pine and browned grass. The drought doesn’t matter now. There is moisture in the air.
“Hard Water Curtain 2”
Me and Ned grew up on the east side of a one light town, near the lake but by no means on it. We were from the Glen Pines trailer park and our stomping ground was closer to I-40, right off exit 90 by the Meal Barn Deal Barn. We were always together. In school we tried to take all the same teachers and in the summers we’d get drunk on stolen Mad Dog and go swim at the powerhouse rocks. On Friday nights you’d find us at the twin cinema. But we weren’t there for the movies. Behind the theater there was an old stained and moldy mattress and if you gave Lydia Hensley 5 bucks she’d take you back there and do whatever you told her to. Things started to change a bit once high school came around. Ned got him a cheerleader girlfriend by the name of Charity and started taking all those advanced classes. He would talk about college and places like Chapel Hill. Places I didn’t know a damn thing about. I went the way of the vocational path and ended up dropping out my last semester. I never expected to do anything besides work a line. Not many of us did. So once I turned 18, I got a jump on it. We both work at the carbon plant now. We do and everyone else does. Third shift, five days a week, eleven dollars an hour. I’m content doing it. Most of us are. Not Ned though. He never wanted the life. Never prepared for it neither. But the summer after graduation that baby came and he got it. He got it and everything that came with it. Their wedding ceremony was something else. It was held outside on the lawn of a foreclosed lake house. Her dad rented it for the afternoon. I never got to see the inside but I’m sure it was impressive. Only the women and the children were allowed. The men were told to use the porta-john around back. At the reception the two had their first dance under the carport and there were coolers of canned Bud Light for the twenty or so guests. It was like a high school reunion, nine years early, and everyone was in good spirits.
But while we all got sloppy and danced, Ned hung back not saying a word to anyone. With his baby in one hand and a can in his left, he was looking tired. Damn tired. Too tired for 19. A few years past and Ned was becoming a drinker. We all were. Had to be. But Ned, he really drank. He drank like he didn’t expect to wake up in the morning. It was a problem but it was his problem and we were taught to mind our own business. I never got married. Don’t know why. Just never did. But I’d get a taste of it every once in a while when Ned and Charity would invite me over. I’d come over and we all would drink beer and Charity would cook dinner. I always played with the kid and I think she liked it when I came by. Couldn’t say really. All I know is I sure do miss it. “I’ll take good care of him” was what I told Ned’s wife as we were packing up the truck. We loaded things like coolers and tents and sleeping bags and flashlights and fishing rods and tackle boxes. “And when we get back,” I said, “We’ll have more trout than your freezer can fit.” Charity smiled at that but didn’t say anything. She just looked at Ned. He put his drink to his face and finished it before hugging her and handing her the empty glass. He climbed up into the driver seat, cranked the engine, and we were off for the creek. I was waving my hand out the passenger window as we pulled away. It was my idea to go camping. Ned didn’t do much besides work and drink these days so I figured it’d be good for him to get out and catch a few fish. Fishing clears any man’s mind and I thought that’d be just what Ned needed. “That wife of yours is something else,” I said after we got on the road a ways. “You think?” he said. “I dunno. Every day her tits get smaller and her ass gets bigger. I tell ya, it’s a goddamn shame.” I didn’t say anything to that but got to thinking about what it would be like knowing you were only going to have one woman for the rest of your days.
We’d gone about five miles and Ned pulled it on over at the ABC store. He asked if I needed anything and I told him I’d drink a little of whatever he got. He was inside when she showed up. A young, thin girl wearing a long and wildly colored skirt came walking up and sat on the curb. She had brown hair all dreaded and pulled back and a chest that was barely contained by a skimpy white tank top. She had a backpack on. One of those external frame types from the seventies and after she sat down she pulled out a flimsy piece of cardboard with the word “ASHEVILLE” in big letters written across it in Sharpie. It didn’t take much convincing. I never thought it would. I’m good with the ladies. Even better with the desperate ones. I had her in the truck before Ned was out the store. Her name was Sunshine but she told us to call her Sunni. She said she was from Florida too, I think. I dunno. I wasn’t really listening. When we got to the river, me and Ned went off and fished for a few hours. Ned was using a treble hook, powerbait, and a splitshot and he came out with several 18inch brookies. I caught a few small ones on the fly rod but spent a lot of time snagged in overhanging trees. I didn’t mind though. It’s all about being out there for me. It was dusk when we got back to the campsite and Sunni had everything set up for us. There was a fire going and even a sizable stack of wood beside it. “Well that’s alright,” was what I said about it and we dropped off the trout in a cooler of ice and started gutting a few to eat. Sunni said she was usually a vegetarian, but she sure ate herself full on those trout. We were drinking pretty fast and all the cold beers we’d brought were gone after dinner. We’d thrown the empties in the fire and I could tell Sunni didn’t approve. Ned broke out the half gallon of whiskey he’d bought and started to pass it around. For the most part I was carrying the conversation. I was really talking Ned up to Sunni. I mean, really talking him up.
They were all lies, sure. But I had this girl thinking Ned was as famous as you can get without getting famous. All the bullshit was really loosening Ned up too. He was starting to talk a little more and Sunni seemed to be giggling at everything he said. We were all still drinking from the bottle and the bottle was getting low. It came outta nowhere but Ned said something about it being a good night for a swim. When Sunni suggested she might be interested, Ned stood up and with no hesitation, stepped outta his pants, threw off his shirt, and went sprinting off into the water. Sunni didn’t follow. I didn’t either. She just giggled and said something about it being late and being drunk then thanked me for the good time and went off for her tent. Ned splashed around for a little while but eventually walked back up to the fire cupping himself with his head down. He sat there naked by the fire until he dried out. Then put his clothes back on and we finished the bottle. “Don’t worry about it,” I told him once we were lying down in the tent. “You almost had her. You just got ahead yourself.” He said he felt old and then he said, “I just wanted to prove I still had it, you know?” I told him he wasn’t old. I told him he still had it. And then I said, “That girl was just being a tease. Trust me. All women are teases. If they weren’t teases, they’d just be whores. You still got time to make your move.” We laid there not saying much after that. Somewhere off in the woods a coyote was whining but no one heard it over the flow of the stream. After a while, I fell asleep. It couldn’t have been but a few hours later when I woke up having to piss and found myself alone in the tent. It was dark, but the moon was bright and its reflection off the water was lighting up the whole area. I unzipped the tent and stumbled out a ways. The fire was now nothing but a few struggling embers and a mass of charred aluminum. I stood in front of it and pissed the last of the heat out. And that’s when I saw them.
Ned had waded out into the middle of the steam. He was nearly up to his waist in the water and she was face down in it. One hand had her by the back of the head. The other was gripping her thigh, setting a rhythm and keeping her close. Her arms were flailing and she was splashing and Ned was grunting and I never did see him let her up for air. I watched him for a while. I watched him prove he still had it. I watched him until I couldnâ€™t watch him anymore. And I never said nothing about it, neither. Not then. Not ever. I just went back to the tent. And while Ned worked at gathering up all her items, I laid there still under that same moonlight and pretended to be asleep.
“Hog out” photo by Thomas Martin
Hudson is banging on the apartment door for the second time this weekend, the whiskey on his breath penetrates all the plaster and insulation, all the layers of peeling paint clinging desperately to the walls. I swear to God, tonight is the night I'm going to kill him. Unlike Friday, a full five minutes pass before I decide to answer, so reluctantly, irritably, I slip out of bed, and introduce my bare feet to the icy hard wood floor. Hud mumbles through the door as I fumble with the locks, but I can't understand him, he tries to charge in before the dead bolt is unlatched. "Fuuuuck." He groans, holding his shoulder. "Fuuck, Boone, you gotta come to the pub, he's causin' a scene, worse than last time, grabbin' at ladies' skirts and everything." "If you're talking about who I think you're talking about, I'm not going. I had enough of him for one lifetime, and you can tell him I said that." "C'mon, Boone, he's our Pop. Emily and Teddy are downstairs waitin' in the rain, put your shoes on." Tonight is a cable broadcast rerun; my life has regrettably been syndicated. This is regrettable because I am not wholesome, there are no morality lessons at the end of my days, usually just a six pack and Conan's opening monologue, and who wants to watch that? "They'll dry off, so will you, and Pop will get eighty-sixed, and wander to a hotel and dry off, too. So go home, get some sleep, you look like shit, pal." "Boone, c'mon, Boone. Y'know I can't take care of him like this." Poor little Hud, heâ€™s so smashed he is nearly cross eyed. The last time I saw him this way, he blacked out in Emily's bathtub, woke up two hours later, stumbled to the kitchen, violently sicked up the floor, and passed out in the fetal position on the dog bed. "Pop's in his fifties, Hud, he doesn't need to be taken care of, not by you, not by anybody. So, please, do me a favor and go home."
Before he gets another word out, I close the door and seal myself back in to my crypt; through the peep hole I watch him sway in place, cuss to himself for a bit, and finally retreat down the hall. Five stories below, I hear Teddy, who is guaranteed more shit-faced than Hudson, threaten to climb the fire escape. From the tap, I pour a fresh glass of Raritan River water, and stare at my muddy sneakers, tuning out Teddy as best I can, but he is so Goddamn loud, and Hud's pathetic expression is plastered in my mind. Fat drops of rain explode on the back of my head when I poke my head out the window, for a moment, I wish they were bullets from God’s gun, filling the city full of holes so we can be swept away to sea. Only then would these issues become insignificant in the presence of swelling waves. There is no clock in the pub, but by the way I feel, it's after midnight when we arrive. Just as Hud said, we find my father half-standing on his bar stool, singing Jim Croce to uninterested strangers. My father, always the eagle-eyed one, spies us in the crowd immediately. "Boooooone! There's my boy, Boone, come save your old man." Pop slurs, waving us over. Sadness leaks from the cracks in my father’s weathered skin, from the laugh lines around his mouth, and the wrinkles near his eyes. Long ago I abandoned the task of building him levees, for all I care, he could flood. "Boone, I gotta have a drink." Pop says. "Looks like you had enough already, Pop." "Naw, only a few, I'm still thirsty. Buy your old man a drink, eh?" "I buy you a few, and then you get out of town. Whatever it is you’re looking for, you won’t find at the bottom of a glass, and you sure as hell won’t find it in this town. So, I buy you a few, sure, but after that, you’re a ghost." Anthony Muni Jr. is 22 and lives in San Diego,CA. To date, he has published two books, which are available online; he can be found at anthonymunijr.wordpress.com, as well as most major social networking sites.
Listen up, soldier! Take that bottle out of your mouth, put on your ass-kicking boots, and stop crying because we are in the fucking desert and you need to conserve water! Private Titty-baby, welcome to Spec Ops: The Line. Before we venture elbow deep into Dubai, I would like to disclose a few things about myself. I predominantly game in the fantasy RPG genre and prefer to smite those who dare oppose me with an assortment of magic spells and sass. I spend more time than I am going to publically admit on character design and tend to become deeply emotionally invested in the storyline. Spec Ops was my first 3rd person shooter war game. (This is where you insert your obligatory “cherry-pop” joke). My first thought was, “I don’t think there are any elves in this game”, immediately followed by, “I AM GOING TO KILL EVERY MOTHER FUCKER UNTIL THEY ARE DEAD”. There are several settings you can play on. I promptly forgot all the names save one, so I will just go ahead and make some up. Giant Baby: where you tap people on the shoulder and they instantly die. Standard-Normz: the bad-nasties fight back but you can kill them if you don’t completely suck (I chose this one because I, in fact, don’t completely suck). YOU GONNA DIE: You are going to die. A lot. F.U.B.A.R.: Impossibly difficult mode that you can only unlock if you play through YOU GONNA DIE mode. The game opens with a helicopter fight. I scoffed at the evil helicopter’s attempts to kill me, and blew them away with no problem. Surprise, it is a flashback scene! There are a lot of SURPRISES, CONSPIRACIES, and DEATHS in this game. There are also lots of mini-movies during which you can indulge in a burrito break. You are in Dubai with your two bros Adams (pragmatic voice of reason) and Lugo (filled with witty one-liners for teh lolz). You play Captain Martin Walker, who was successfully designed to Tough-Guy-Soldier protocols. You guys are in Dubai, where there has been a big ass sandstorm of apocalyptic proportions.
Seriously, there is sand everywhere. Sand is so prevalent, that several missions involve blowing things up in order to use sand to escape and/or kill bad-nasties. Your mission is to locate a colonel, survivors, and return to the states with just enough time to watch Mother, May I Sleep with Danger on Lifetime. Super easy, right? WELL YOU ARE WRONG, BECAUSE SHIT STARTS GOING CRAZY THE SECOND YOU GET THERE AND DOESN’T STOP GOING CRAZY. YOU HAVE TO KEEP IT TOGETHER AND FIGURE OUT WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON. Here are a few hints. There are shiny things sprinkled throughout the game. These may be guns, ammo, and love notes, I mean, intelligence reports. Anything shiny is worth investigating, just try not to get exploded doing it. Also, there aren’t any dwarf-owned stores to buy supplies, so don’t shoot your gun off into the air or do something equally stupid. Nothing is as it seems in Dubai. (That is supposed to sounds spooky in your mind. Feel free to re-read that sentence in a Dracula voice). TRUST NO ONE. Remember, when in doubt, TAKE THEM OUT. THAT IS AN ORDER.
You are like an animal Full of pure possibility Defined by nature and god But free to do whatever you like. Walking on two legs is fun Bipedality Version homosapien Chimpanzee 2.0 We are looking for whores in the town Riding bikes with no breaks Born again as animals For just one night Glasses of whiskey to my grave Or puking possibility Reduced by one super burrito In just one bite: erotic ecstacy So green salsa down my throat I’m feelin creepy and HornEy Let’s go to the bar, the baa aa arr…. We are all just Trampolines Bouncing on the foam of booze Unaware of what lies below With Foam all over our beards Missing all the love and intimacy All for one shark bite but the pursuit is alright… Could have had something fine No we choose lack of confidence And foamy beers No we keep it light And laugh into the night Scrawny sharks roaming the night Talking about a bite. Chimpanzee 1.0 Not so long ago
Art by Kevin Yee
Pietro is a photographer from Italy who makes his way across the globe to document rollerblading contests and events. Along the way, he’s taken some incredible candid photos of the people, places, and architecture he’s encountered. For each “Blade Diary”, he creates a limited number of self-published zines to promote his craft, and to give his friends and family a little something extra to enjoy. Although the events he attends are somewhat formalized in schedule, Pietro manages to capture the underlying relaxed and friendly vibe of blade culture, which seems to be a common thread on an international scale. These are a few select shots from his vast library; I suggest you take the time to check out the rest of his work at www.pietrofirrincieli.com. -Matt Lewis
Copenhagen, July 2012
Genova. July 2012
Copenhagen, July 2012
NYC, September 2012
NYC, September 2012
Berlin, July 2012
Los Angeles, October 2012
Oslo, December 2012
Rome, November 2011
1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10. 11. 12. 13. 14. 15. 16. 17. 18. 19. 20. 21. 22. 23. 24. 25. 26. 27. 28. 29. 30. 31. 32. 33. 34. 35. 36. 37. 38. 39. 40. 41. 42. 43. 44. 45. 46. 47. 48. 49. 50. 51. 52.
She has the Tv on way too loud. I’m fucked... I have to get up early. I don’t feel as bad as I thought I would Did she drink the rest of the beer? Should I have cereal or eggs...?... Get the cereal... No wait Eggs... No cereal will be lighter Maybe if I unplug the coffee maker it’ll work Maybe if I unplug it again it’ll work It works...oh shit what’s that sound... might wake the roommate I’ll try once more to unplug it. What a start to the day...great the fucking coffee maker doesn’t work I wonder if there’s any comments on Facebook What time is it? Shit I have to be there earlier Make sure and give her a kiss Maybe I need to take Lucy out so the other dog owner doesn’t judge me I wonder if I’m late Shit I have to wash that towel Do we even have eggs? Shit I have to get groceries. This car stinks I hope nobody needs a ride from me and they smell the stinky car Shit I’m late... It’ll be ok I wonder if they think I’m late This is weird This place stinks... Did someone just take a big shit? I wonder if she’s not happy about doing this? Don’t drop the boom Holy life is trivial Kamloops in April is quite nice It’s great when people are proud of captured moments She blinks weird... I wonder how that will cut together? Will my credit card go through? Did we get that for free? I wonder if he thought I was bragging I wonder if he’s annoyed that I put the camera in the wrong way She looks like Mike Kaluzny and he looks like Chad Watson... Fuck weird. Did that sound like I was bragging? Man this place is weird Oh shit Will I have enough time? Shit... I wonder if I’ll be able to get the car back in time 3 shoots in a day is a lot Do my boots stink? Someone definitely farted and it smells unhealthy I wonder if anything got posted on twitter I wonder if anything got posted on Rollernews I wonder if anything got posted on Be-Mag I wonder if anyone commented on it on Facebook Why aren’t more people watching it? Should I comment? Oh this song is kinda cool... who is this... oh shit Plaid? I slept on Plaid for way too long Windowlicker is such a good song
53. 54. 55. 56. 57. 58. 59. 60. 61. 62. 63. 64. 65. 66. 67. 68. 69. 70. 71. 72. 73. 74. 75. 76. 77. 78. 79. 80. 81. 82. 83. 84. 85. 86. 87. 88. 89. 90. 91. 92. 93. 94. 95. 96. 97. 98. 99. 100. 101. 102. 103. 104. 105. 106. 107.
That section is so good in Ok Buddy with windowlicker That part in that section with the Ronald McDonald suit is hilarious I should post a picture of that Oh shit will someone walk in when I’m posting? I need to text Todd about how awesome ‘Ok Buddy’ is. I need to poop I should message Mike Opalek about ‘Ok Buddy.’ Oh shit I gotta go I should check if anyone has commented on the post I hate twitter This place is kinda weird I hate these kinds of things Is he pissed that I’m here? Should I say hi? That dude definitely thinks I’m weird Is my beard too long? This is so old fashioned What did she mean by that? Should I ask her? Those are the kinds of things I would avoid if I could Who the fuck forgets to put a battery in? Fuck, fuck, fuck, I’m fucked... What will they think? This area kind of stinks That poor bastard Do they think I’m weird? How do I make this weird room work? Man this is bizarre Should I say something? Oh that’ll be pretty good I need a new camera I wonder if they think I farted? Why is my penis sucking in like that? Where the fuck is it? I’m late... I wonder if they’ll be like “he’s late” My body is way too stiff Oh that worked out I need to do more I don’t think I could have 3 kids Do they use this room? Oh shit that was a good shot Did I give away too much information? This guy following me is going to piss me off…I’ll pull over That rink looks kinda shitty Oh shit is that a new spot? I wonder if I could do that? I’ll just check Facebook to kill time... I wonder why there aren’t more views? Damn I really need to wash the car This isn’t so bad Real people are way weirder than any movie character could ever be Life is incredibly trivial Winter sucks People must kill themselves if they live in a foggy place for too long Yoga is amazing Silence and darkness make a lot of sense I need to focus on breathing more. God damn my body is tense... I’m way too tense.
Art by Kevin Yee
Published on Jun 12, 2013
This issue features a cover from artist Sean Andress, as well as art & writing from Kevin Yee, Matt Lewis, Sunny Katz, Brian Krans, Joey McG...