Arts & Letters
Written by Maggy Bikini
There are people who say that America has no common culture outside of reality television. To these skeptics, I offer a simple two-word-total rebuttal: swimsuit season. The bathing suit, which undercuts decades of progress, allows women to pretend they don’t grow hair. Yes, the whole of America, as evidenced by the media, the products of the fashion industry, and the glares of strangers—the sum total of American popular thought—firmly agrees that women’s bodies were meant to be hairless. Who said the American dream is dead?
Written by Francie Maclean
Jackson as a buffet: he arrives home from work on a Wednesday evening in May bearing a loaf of bread, a two-litre container of green top-trim milk, and a sign. It’s a bit awkward getting the stuff out of the Holden. He positions himself, legs planted slightly apart by the open car door, and leans his lanky frame down into the backseat and carefully lifts the painted wooden sign up—slowly, gently—then begins to edge it back towards himself. Nice and steady, like he’s extracting a sponge cake from the oven. He doesn’t want the sign to knock against the interior and get its paint scraped off. It’s a good sign. Professional. Gold letters on a green background.