Issue 12  •  Spring 2013

Arts & Letters

 Active Image At eighteen, I cared about power and speed. My favorite bands were The Refused, Dillinger 4, Operation Ivy, and Black Flag. I wanted my music to hit me hard like a shiny hammer to the brain, over and over and over and over, until everything dull and boring and demanding and responsible was shattered into simple bits of idealist platitudes. Details and normal people were boring. Destructive, aggressive, maniacal joy, visible to me in Henry Rollins’ tattooed, gym-built forearms, kept me feeling fresh in the poisonous landscapes of a happily mediocre America.
 

Dear Gord

Written by Comic by Justine Zwiebel
 
 

A Veil of Childish Cries

Written by Jason Diamond
 Active Image Driving around in a Ford Explorer named "Bender," they listened to Operation Ivy on blown out speakers. They guzzled gas, paid for by Bernard's dad’s credit card, while Jesse Michaels sounded like he was singing into a tin can. But it didn't matter because he knew all the lyrics to every song. Each one was like a bit of gospel, and inside his head was where he could scream along. Today, nearly in his thirties, if you asked, he'd tell you that "I only feel jaded and disappointed because Jesse never became the great writer his father was, and because Lars went on to be in Rancid, who were sellouts no matter how high their Mohawks or how studded their belts."
 

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