in the issue
Phish in a Barrel
—American Gypsies on the Bandwagon
Lost Film
—Cinema of an Indeterminate Nature
The Second Coming
—An Armageddon Parable
Homesick: A New Galerie
—Photography of Dorothee Deiss
This fellow could have bought a nice piece of land or a mid-size car with the dollars he pulled in, but there was little doubt where that money was going: first into his stomach, next towards the purchase of a ticket, then into his gas tank and on to the next show.
In the case of both Sanborn and James, we have a lost man settled only on uncertainty. The center doesn't hold.
The hum of uncertainty, the sound of the world cracking, returned: it was as when the Challenger had exploded, when O.J. had ridden in his white Bronco, when Princess Di had been extinguished like a candle in the wind. They recalled September 11.
Please pack for the summer home where you will meet Dorothee Deiss.
fresh off the press
The show of the indicted, by the slighted, for the short-sighted, had sated the day’s requirement of spectacle.
When one side started to leak, she tapped my ass with Super Glue and called it a success.
the jungle
Something in the Water
by | 0
The reason why Prozac is in the water at all is piss: gallons upon gallons of rich, golden, chemical-cocktail human piss.
A Timely Pass
Lady, or the Tramp
The Careful Continent
menagerie
Good Vibrations
by | 0
The “massager” was lauded by women’s magazines and one of its early retailers, Sears Roebuck, as the quintessential gift for a woman, designed to preserve her youth and keep her neurotic outbursts at bay.
Jesus People USA
Chicago Writes
Another Man’s Treasure
on the chopping block
The Litterbug
by | 1
All of the Ke$ha jabs just seem to express that a woman can be a whore in Hollywood as long as she does it with some class.
A Crass Addiction
Twilight of the Idles
A Labor of Love
revue
Always West
by | 0
Right at the crux of the turn, where bright headlight beams reach their limit in the outer dark, a tight cluster of four white crosses flashes into focus. A moment later it’s gone. There’s been colliding here. Now our car propels its pilgrims forward, eating the road beneath.
Run, Rabbit, Run
Motherland
Songs of Ourselves
fiction & poetry
The Settlement
by | 3
She rolls into his gravel driveway and waits with the engine idling. He appears at the front door and glances casually at his watch as he approaches, letting her know he knows she is late. Old irritation flares inside her like an ulcer.




