Vuittonite Review #9

trans– transact transactinide transaction transactional analysis transactivate Trans Alai transalpine Transalpine Gaul transaminase transamination transatlantic transaxle Transcaucasia transceiver transcend transcendent transcendental transcendentalism transcendental meditation transcontinental transcribe transcript transcriptase transcription transculturation transcurrent transcutaneous transdermal transdermal patch transduce transducer transductant transduction transect transept transeunt trans fat trans fatty acid transfection transfer transferal transferase transferee transference transfer factor transfermium transferor transfer payment transferrin transfer RNA transfer station transfiguration transfigure transfinite transfinite number transfix transform transformation transformational grammar transformer transform fault transfuse transfusion transgendered transgene transgenesis transgenic transgenics transgress transgression transgressive tranship transhumance transience transient transient ischemic attack transillumination transistor transistorize transistor radio transit transition transition element transition region transitive transitory Transjordan Transkei translate translation translative translator transliterate translocate translocation translucent transluminal translunar transmarine transmembrane transmigrant transmigrate transmissible transmission transmissometer transmit transmittal transmittance transmitter transmitter-receiver transmogrify transmontane transmundane Lordy, lordy look who’s 40! transmutation transmute transnational transoceanic transom transonic transp. transpacific transparency transparent Actually, as it turns out, we’re only 9, as in issues, not volumes, and certainly transpersonal transpicuous transpiration not years. Then why all the hullabaloo you ask? Why all the fuss for a still todtranspire transplacental transplant transpolar transponder transpontine transport dling publication? Why the new, fancy page size, the luxurious excesses taken transportation transpose transposition with layout, the forays into visual art presentations, color, and conceptual transposon transsexual transship thematic approaches (like this month’s trans theme) that result in a hard-totransthoracic transubstantiate transubstantiation transudate transude transuranic classify (yet compelling, if I do say so myself) pastiche? transurethral Transvaal transvalue transversal transverse transverse arch transverse Yes, to most eyes it would seem that the Vuittonite Review is having a mid-life colon transverse flute transverse process transversion transvestite Transylcrisis and has traded-up for that newer, slicker 2.0 version. Some might say vania Transylvanian Alps trans– transact we’ve transmuted, metamorphosed; those prescient persons would be right. transactinide transaction transactional We have indeed transitioned (is a pattern emerging?) and are likely to do so, analysis transactivate Trans Alai transalpine Transalpine Gaul transaminase transamination again and again. transatlantic transaxle Transcaucasia transceiver transcend transcendent transcenYou see, dear reader, if there is one thing we are doing at the Vuittonite (bedental transcendentalism transcendental meditation transcontinental transcribe sides merry making), it’s translating our experiences as anarchists into other, transcript transcriptase transcription less expected realms.

We are employing feats of fashion, artistry and skill to transculturation transcurrent transcutaneous transmit the necessity of non-hierarchy into lands hitherto dismissed. We’re transdermal transdermal patch transduce transducer transductant transduction transect busily exploring the Antarctic regions of our politic, and probably, one day, transept transeunt trans fat trans fatty acid we’ll be headed headlong into the liminal altogether. transfection transfer transferal transferase transferee transference transfer factor transfermium transferor transfer payment Nevertheless, the thing is, the point, is the transgressing, the transference of transferrin transfer RNA transfer station transone set of ideas onto another and another, and so on, and so on, and so on, till figuration transfigure transfinite transfinite we reach that particular transubstantiation of this life-as-we-know-it, into life number transfix transform transformation transformational grammar transformer transform as we dream it. fault transfuse transfusion transgendered transgene transgenesis transgenic transgenics Towards the transfinite! transgress transgression transgressive tranship transhumance transience transient transient ischemic attack transillumination

My Dahlings, transistor transistorize transistor radio transit transition transition element transition region transitive transitory Transjordan Transkei translate translation translative translator transliterate translocate translocation translucent transluminal translunar transmarine transmembrane transmigrant transmigrate transmissible transmission transmissometer transmit transmittal transmittance transmitter transmitterreceiver transmogrify transmontane transmundane transmutation transmute transnational transoceanic transom transonic transp. transpacific transparency transparent transpersonal transpicuous transpiration transpire transplacental transplant transpolar transponder transpontine transport transportation transpose transposition transposon transsexual transship transthoracic transubstantiate transubstantiation transudate transude transuranic transurethral Transvaal transvalue transversal transverse transverse arch transverse colon transverse flute transverse process transversion transvestite Transylvania Transylvanian Alps trans– transact transactinide transaction transactional analysis transactivate Trans Alai transalpine Transalpine Gaul transaminase transamination transatlanti transaxle Transcaucasia transceiver transcend transcendent transcendental transcendentalism transcendental meditation transcontinental transcribe transcript transcriptase transcription transculturation transcurrent transcutaneous transdermal transdermal patch transduce transducer transductant transduction transect transept transeunt trans fat trans fatty acid transfection transfer transferal

editor’s letter

six gun planet

What do drag queens, cowboys, robots, a road trip, and a library book sale in western Massachusetts have in common? If you guessed right, partner, then you guessed Six Gun Planet. Truth be told, road trips and library book sales in Mass. have little to do with the novel, but each, in its own way, provided the perfect avenue for obtaining a cheap copy of the audio book and ample time to digest the contents. John Jakes, pioneering auteur of sci-fi/westerns, such as the aforementioned, leaves an indelible mark on one’s conscientiousness with this offering.

Explore the meaning of a rebel planet, sometime far in the future, called Missouri, who has overthrown its government in order to take on the lifestyle and culture of the Wild West. Ask yourself whether or not you identify with the protagonist, Zak Randolph, and his attempt to marry the rough lifestyle of a bounty hunter with the civilized customs of the Cosmic Confederation Planets, whom he works for, and who would like to reign in Missouri. Or if you find yourself more aligned with the murderous, infamous gunslinger Buffalo Yung. Then wait for the end and see how your thought experiment carries out. If you bother with this one, and do bother, the audio book performances outshine the paperback, hands down.

20 centimeters The movie itself is fantastic, but by far the best part is the musical rendition of Madonna’s ‘True Blue,’ which I’ve watched no less than a thousand times. The movie contains a few musical numbers, which are like little vignettes of their own, loosely related to the plot (where Marieta saves money for her sex change opperation). In ‘True Blue’ Marieta and her two best friends each find their true loves, get hitched, pop out some babies, but can’t lose that baby weight. Then they catch all their husbands getting it on together and throw them all out. Each contemplates putting themselves out of their miseries, but can’t go through with it. The ladies grow old, and are eventually reunited with their “true loves,” circa age 80. This all happens in the time it takes to sing the song. You see why you need to watch it now? The video is all over youtube, do yourself a favor and watch it.

A

I DA

. . . . . .

Apparently, not everyone thinks vocoders, space disco and synthesizers when they think Neil Young, but they’d be wrong. When this album came out, Young fans were in an outrage; where was the whiny, self-reflexive folk rock anthems that they came to love? Young was unapologetic, however, and said that the album came from discovering that his son, who was born with cerebral palsy, responded better to him when he talked to him in the vocoder, featured prominently on the album. We at the Vuittonite simply love it.

transx

Right up there with Modern Talking and My Mine, TransX is a very important piece of history in the italo-disco genre of trashy dance music. In all honesty, Modern Talking is the real star, in fact just the other day I was in a horrible mood and someone happened to put on Sexy, Sexy Lover (these are the circles we vuittonites circulate in) and don’t you know, in a matter of seconds I was punching the air and vamping along with the lyrics. But Transx isn’t bad either, the video for their one and only hit “Living on Video” is of note, if only in a fashion sense.

Pictureplane/BDRMPPL – “Trance Doll”/ “Cyberpunk” split 7” – self-released

. [

living the life

]

With stark cover art that could have come out in the early 1990s hardcore underground or today’s DIY milieu, the music on this two-song platter is as subversive as its conception. Both sets of artists use no traditional rock instruments and yet due to the approach of recontextualizing and appropriating sound for purposes to which they may not have been originally designed, this split is more punk rock than a bunch of guys wailing away on guitars, bass and drums. In a day and age when the idea of punk has been all but completely commodified and transformed in the popular conscious into wicked and twisted forms, the ideals that spurred and kept that movement alive were bound to pop up again and again in ways that are able to inspire and shake up the status quo. As punk rock stripped rock and roll down to its essentials and reworked it all with ideas and attitudes long forgotten or never explored, Pictureplane and BDRMPPL here transform electronic music sounds and techniques of the 1980s and 1990s into something as beautiful and moving as the best of that music but with an undeniable experimental streak throughout.

Pictureplane’s track sounds immediately as though it was transported out of a 90s science fiction movie scored by famed trance artist, Sandra Collins.

It is an uplifting number with sampled voices serving as some of the instrumentation while Travis Egedy’s voice inhabits the song like the lone brave sole on the dance floor while the too cool stand aside wondering whether this new song is worthy of a display of their terpsichorean skills. Surges and glimmers of sound give Egedy’s vocal dance an otherworldly grace and dignity absent from so much modern dance music; the song is haunting yet comforting all at once.

pictureplane

The BDRMPPL song begins sounding a bit like a song from William Orbit’s Strange Cargo III, or some ambient Hawkwind song, before the vocals begin, like the seven dwarfs going to work had they lived in a tropical climate.

As though they had won a contest to go on vacation from a life of toil and greed. The electronic percussion is decidedly tropical in flavor and when the kettle drum sounds kick in it sounds like what you might get if African percussionists collaborated with an 8-bit electronic outfit produced by Adrian Sherwood. “Cyberpunk” is hip-hop transmogrified into the street music out of William Gibson’s cinematic imagination.

In blurring the lines between pop and the avant-garde, Pictureplane and BDRMPPL transcend genre and aim at being that virus that changes the world of electronic music for the better by being more interesting than the mainstream while also being at least as accessible as the mainstream. Maybe this record won’t hit the soundtracks of popular, vapid TV shows, but it’s not designed to. If anything, like punk rock did thirty years ago, this record is just one more sign that the most vital art is coming once again from an underground that doesn’t merely reject the mainstream, but coopts that mainstream and creates a strategy for the next big, transformative wave of music. -Tom Murphy

throu gh,acr oss,be yond... trans

Trans Modernity - Mikhail Epstein In considering the names that might possibly be used to designate the new era following “postmodernism,” one finds that the prefix “trans’” stands out in a special way.

The last third of the 20th century developed under the sign of “post,” which signaled the demise of such concepts of modernity as “truth” and “objectivity,” “soul” and “subjectivity,” “utopia” and “ideality,” “primary origin” and “originality,” “sincerity” and “sentimentality.” All of these concepts are now being reborn in the form of “trans-subjectivity,” “trans-idealism,” “trans-utopianism,” “trans-originality,” “trans-lyricism,” “trans-sentimentality” etc. This new lyricism, however, is not the kind that surges forth spontaneously from the soul; this idealism does not proudly soar above the world; this utopianism is not like the one at the beginning of the 20th century, which aggressively sought to reconstruct the world.

It is an “as if” lyricism, an “as if” idealism, an “as if” utopianism, aware of its own failures, insubstantiality, and secondariness. Nevertheless, these “trans” phenomena want to come to self-expression in the form of repetition. Paradoxically as it may sound, it is precisely through repetition that they reclaim their primacy and authenticity.

Tired gestures, which are no longer automatized, as in the poetics of postmodernism, are replete with their own lyricism. In repetition, in quotation, there is a naturalness, a simplicity, an inevitability which is lacking in a primary act, born of effort and with claims to revelation.

transport

- Kate Kershenstein

Remember Waiting for Godot? Remember when Vladimir and Estragon (sometimes affectionately referred to by one another as Didi or GoGo), just sit there?

Well, more or less, that’s the entirety of the whole play, but remember the end?

When they say to each other, finally, once and for all, “Let’s go. Yes. Let’s go.”

Neither moves, neither says a word, they just sit, and continue waiting. . . waiting . . . and waiting.

The destruction of the efficiency of modernity paired with the disavowal of postmodern irony brings us full circle, attempting to find a way to re-embrace many modernist concepts – truth, utopia, subject, object, as a means of finding a way to understand, to be released, to change, to continue.

We sit waiting, “Gogo, what did you do today?” “Ah, nothing, you?” “Oh, nothing.”

Humanity has witnessed firsthand the systemic destruction that occurs when modernist myths are left unabated.

When scientifically plotted adherence to the above (and the like) allows for unchecked progress. Supporting the prevailing sensibility that the garden of human existence can be weeded of all its ills (read: Stalinism, Fascism, Manifest Destiny) regardless of the cost or the inherent problems of such an assertion.

where?” “Yes. Go, we should go.”

Then, the myths once lost, the belief in optimism, the belief that having belief in anything, reappears. The transmodern posits that the adages of old, truth and the like, can be reused, better understood in the wake of the modern, in the wake of the postmodern, taken simply as descriptors, as code for the enactment of rituals.

Rituals that invoke those myths, but as mythology, only. Rituals that allow the acknowledgment of the narratives of life, utopia and truth and all, and allow

Whatever had not yet been squelched by the alienating processes of industrialization was deflated by the loss of the myths that had supported modernism – at the hands of postmodernism.

And further, we’ve engaged the relativist struggles of postmodernism, whereby nothing is right, nothing is wrong, everything is contextual, there is no way to act, and thereby care, or feel. Beliefs have lost meaning, action has lost meaning, ideals have lost meaning. Yet, even in this postmodern age, the atrocities of prejudice, degradation, and war, often considered evils of modernism alone, continue unchecked. Whatever had not yet been squelched by the alienating processes of industrialization was deflated by the loss of the myths that had supported modernism – at the hands of postmodernism. Leaving nowhere to go, no self, idealism, or change. Though, “We’d like to go, wouldn’t we Didi? Go some-

them existence, wounded but walking.

And, in their resurfacing, they are seen as they are, never again capable of their past intoxicating power.

In embracing the fallibility of these myths, their fulfillment, and consequently, the fallibility of ourselves, we return to a place where life has meaning. But only in so much as we accept that we have entered into a narrative, and have chosen to believe in its existence, and will perform in accordance with that belief. You might say, we must chose to suspend our disbelief.

But we will have chosen.

“Let’s go. Yes. Let’s go.” M

transillumination Excerpt from The Last Time I Wore a Dress: A Memoir Even now, it’s always the same question: Why don’t you act more like a girl? Makeup, dresses, a little swing in my walk is what people mean. The millennium is upon us and this is the level of discussion.

The only thing I can say is, I tried.

It wasn’t as simple as my doctors made it sound. In the hospital, I turned control of my face over to my roommate Donna, a fluffy-haired girl with major depression.

She wanted to help. She tried to pinpoint exactly why my fifteen-year-old girl-face looked boyish. This turned out to be a bigger question than we could answer.

So we settled for the superficial: A jawline that needed shading? Eyes that needed definition?

Donna wasn’t given the strong drugs, at least not early in the morning, so her aim was true. She came at me with a black wand and drew a thin line on the edge of my eyelid.

From the bed my other roommate piped up. “You have wicked lashes.” Mostly she kept quiet, since she was not too naturally feminine-appearing herself, and wanted to stay out of the mess I was in.

Every morning I lowered my eyelids and let Donna make me up. If I didn’t emerge from my room with foundation, lip gloss, blush, mascara, eyeliner, eye shadow and feathered hair, I lost points. Without points I couldn’t go to the dining room, I couldn’t go anywhere, not that we were going many places to begin with. Without points, I was not allowed to walk from the classroom back to the unit without an escort.

- Dylan Scholinski

The teacher handed me off to an attendant who asked what did you learn in school today and isn’t English literature wonderful and I could tell by his voice that he thought it was a pathetic thing to be a girl who didn’t have enough points to travel a hundred feet alone. Either choice I hated: makeup, or a man trailing in my shadow. It didn’t take me long to figure out that a half-moon of blue on my eyelids was a better decision. This was how I learned what it means to be a woman.

When Donna stepped back, I stared in the mirror at the girl who was me, and not me: the girl I was supposed to be.

“I like my blue eye shadow,” I said. Through the slightly open door I knew George, the counselor with a wrestler’s build, listened in the hall. During the day, we almost always had to have our doors open. To inspire me they sent over the gorgeous male counselors.

“I really like my eyeliner,” I said. Ever lied to save yourself? “I love looking pretty.” Ever been so false your own skin is your enemy?

No affirmations, no points. I knew that later my counselor would put a check mark next to my morning treatment goal: “ Spend 15 minutes with a female peer combing and curl ing hair and experimenting with makeup.” Ten points, as long as I showered and washed my hair first.

The staff was under orders to scrutinize my femininity: the way I walked, the way I sat with my ankle on my knee, the clothes I wore, the way I kept my hair. Trivial matters, one might say. But trivial matters in which the soul reveals itself. Try changing these things. Try it.

Wear an outfit that is utterly foreign – narrow skirt when what you prefer is a loose shift of a dress. Tornup black jeans when what you like are pin-striped wool trousers. See how far you can contradict your nature. Feel how your soul rebels.

One million dollars my treatment cost. Insurance money, but still. Three years in three mental hospitals for girly lessons, 1981-1984. A high-school diploma from a psychiatric facility for adolescents, a document I never show anyone.

Donna had a knack for eyeliner and strawberry-flavored lip gloss but for the price, I would have thought they’d bring in someone really good, maybe Vidal Sassoon. M

transient

Paris, February, 2005 Just so I remember, I’m going to write it down.

I decided to try studying abroad, after breaking up with my crazy girlfriend. I went to the student loan office and I asked how much they could give me if I wanted to go to Paris. They said they’d give me 10 k, even with my C- average, so I took it.

I signed up and got my recommendations and French/Russian friends said I’d do great in Paris. So, I left my job and saved some cash. Weird thing is, out of 14 students who were ready to go, only 3 ended-up going, including me. Sort of suspicious, huh?

I arrived at Orly, I think, and took a cab to the hotel, Hotel du Monde, near La Bastille (11mme arr). I just

- Christopher Bullock

barely had enough cash to make the cab fare. I arrived at the hotel, and found my room. There was some Romanian kid sleeping on the bed, who was my roomate. We went down to pay some rent. Turns out they raised the rent on the spot by 300 euros! Sucks. Later on my friend told me the study abroad office knew all about the rent hike, but didn’t tell us. Nice. So my Romanian roomate doesn’t know how to speak French, and he expects me to help him with everything, which I refuse.

Then he argues with me and makes things difficult. The other student is an older black man, about 300 pounds. He scares the shit out of all the short little Parisians. He eats alot of hamburgers and complains alot.

So, we go sightseeing for a bit, and the Romanian kid tags along everywhere. Meanwhile, I am looking for a new place to live. We hang out at the Pompidou, where the Romanian proceeds to embarrass himself, and me, by asking attractive girls which are the easiest classes at the Sorbonne to take. They basically shut him down. We meet our Parisian advisor, some lady with a few cats. She advises me about some woman on the west side, who takes in American students. I like La Bastille, I go to some protests, whole families march, with music and drums. Meanwhile the Romanian is saying things like, “Chris, I think I will do something, women like a man who does something.” He is smitten with a 18 yr old model staying downstairs. So he starts a charcoal drawing of her,

So, for two weeks I go to these random locations all over Paris, and get rejected.

and adds to it every afternoon, and the picture progressively gets darker and more menacing.

So, I meet up with the lady on the west side (16mme arr) and she seems okay; she’s a professor who tutors Americans on their French.

The 16mme is an old rich area, next to the Bois du Bologne, favorite haunt of transvestites and prostitutes. My advisor tells me to go through with it, so I do, and hand over several months’ rent in advance. Once plans are settled, I am at Notre Dame with the Romanian, and I have to meet up with her, so I ditch him. He stands there whining, “Why are you leaving me?” So, I catch Le Metro and go. Mostly at this time I am eating Lebanese food from Les Halles area. My roomates insist on McDonalds and complain about everything.

So, I move into the 16mme, on Rue Jasmine. My new roomates are: the wife of an Eastern European diplomat, an American surveying European beers, and a girl from Manchester. I get to sleep in the living room. Meanwhile I am checking out the PopIn, where Sunday nights are hosted by a Swedish guy from the band Herman Dune. And the kids there sing Americana songs, folk versions, in perfect English, which is sort of surreal, stuff like,“Walk Like an Egyptian.” Then afterwards is the dance party. Otherwise, I try to hang out with my new friends and try to avoid Americans, they seem lost and aimless and boring (just like me).

I also start attending the Sorbonne.

It’s very difficult to register, since offices are only open 9-12pm, and the zombies fiercely guard their hours.

So we commute to campus, and if we don’t make it, we’re screwed.

Plus you have to attend a class if you want to get in. So, for two weeks I go to these random locations all over Paris, and get rejected. My French advisor (in NY) is sympathetic but can’t do much. And my favorite French prof (in NY) is dead of cancer. So there you go. I end up with classes taught in English. One class, I actually defend American culture against stupid French guys with all these stereotypes. And I’m still going out, and I meet kids from the suburbs, and they are the friendlist people so far. Along with the Algerian and African girls in my classes.

SO I move into the new flat, and weirdness really takes off. After signing a lease, etc. I am talking with my landlady, and she says it’s good that I left La Bastille (11mme), it’s very bad because of all the blacks and arabs! Who knew. So anyway, I unpack. Then my American roomate tells me that Helene looks through everyone’s baggage. That sucks. The upstairs room opens up, I ask her if i can have it, she says no way. People tell me it’s because she wants to be able to snoop through my things. And she can’t stop talking to either me, or herself, (so I can hear it), so I get no peace. I study at Pompidou and wander the city, getting tired and hungry, eating at Les Halles or QuickBurger, or Falafel places in the gay area (forgot what it’s called), or just browsing at the cd store (forgot that place’s name, also).

One night I come home, and Helene is in my bed. By this time I’m already annoyed by her, so I tell her to get out. She gets out and tells me that she fell asleep watching a movie. She was wearing a bathrobe and that’s it. She goes to sleep on the floor, near the front door to the

flat. Later my roomate says she wasn’t watching a movie, she just went to bed.

In my bed. Then the diplomat’s wife gets pissed that she is sleeping in the foyer, since she wants have her kids visit her.

So one night Helene is sleeping in the foyer, and I still want to live upstairs. My roomate is totally drunk and asks me to think up an abbreviation, for an agency.

I say SDS (Students for a Democratic Society) but it doesn’t matter what it is.

He goes over and kicks her awake, saying, “Helene.. we need to talk.. Helene..” and she pretends to be sleepy. He then demands I get the upstairs room, or he’ll report her to the SDS. She doesn’t belive us (rightly so). Then he goes in the kitchen and starts burning candy bars.

By the way, her water closet is decorated from ceiling to floor with covers from Elle magazine. And, she talks about rich American beeznessmen who will fly her to Dallas. We snooped through her things and found pictures from when she was in her thirties, happily married with a daughter. Dressed up very nice, looking like a party girl. Now she’s in her forties and on the edge.

see the worst movie I’ve ever seen.

And the Americans are still really, really boring and refuse to talk about their past in the States, they prefer to wear trenchcoats and drink wine along the Seine like its 1933. I go to some rallies, and I walk around at night along the Seine. Then I go to author signings and stuff like that, and little concerts in indie record stores.

By then my French is so good I can fool French indie rockers.

Weird shit happens, like some guy just pukes all over the books at Shakespeare & Co, then leaves. Then also, somewhere in the Left Bank, some Asian guy is crossing the street, screaming hysterically at cars, carrying a little poodle. Then he puts the dog down so it can shit, and he is still red in the face, screaming at people. I make trips to Gare du Nord and Menilmontant, heavily African areas, and Les Halles, very Arab. France is pretty much an Islamic country, nobody admits it. I never went to the Louvre or any of those places. Who gives a shit? Life sucks. continued on last page . . .

Things get tense and she starts pitting us against each other, people aren’t allowed to talk to me. Plus, I got fined for jumping a turnstile. But my British friend paid the fine, since she told me to do it. Then later i learn she was pissed that she had to pay.

Oh well. I start looking around Paris for a lawyer, or something. I read poetry at Shakespeare and Co, which by the way, is not the same spot Sylvia Beach had.

It was bought and moved after she died.

It’s run by Walt Whitman’s grandson or something. My poetry goes over really well. I also read at the PopIn, plus I go

Weird shit happens, like some guy just pukes all over the books at Shakespeare & Co, then leaves.

Tactics for fall fashion transgressions. With fall fashion in full swing, mansies have their work cut out for them. The major houses, with their boring or unwearable designs and their vulgar prices leave us little to nothing. And on the other end, radical subcultures promoting drabness and conformity season after season are no better.

In the mêlée that is fall fashion, what’s a mansy to do?

Thus far, the Boulevardier has discussed why mansy fashion is relevant, how it undermines militarism and patriarchy, and why outlaws are fashion heroines. But many aspiring mansies still seem to be at a loss for how to make the first steps from unfashionable cretins to elegant outlaw socialites. In this column, we look at a few strategies for making mansy fashion work for you and a few tricks that will help you enter the world of the well dressed.

Fall: A Blessing and A Challenge What better time to discuss fashion strategies than the fall season, a time for experimentation, layers, scarves, practical accessories, wind blown hair and romantic lip pouting. But for the aspiring mansy this can be a challenging time as well, it is getting colder and for some this means it is a time to give up on fashion for “practical” garments such as puffy jackets made of material referred to by its chemical compound. As for being practical, they simply go too far, they are part of an Xtreme Xtremist conspiracy bent on infantilizing mansies and tricking them to look and act like they are in j-high. This will not do. If you are tempted to wear these garments it is far better, in a fashion sense, to cut off both your arms, that way you are not tempted to reach for the proverbial gun that would put an end to your entire fashion life.

Yes the cold weather is a challenge, but it is something that allows for a kaleidoscope of possibilities. By disavowing the garb of the unsightly Xtremist, the mansy is forced to rely upon fashion innovation for protection from the elements, which almost always yields positive results.

A good trick is to consider the season from the point of view of color, fabrics, and silhouette and choose your wardrobe from there. You needn’t pigeon hole yourself to a classic fall look, though it is often fun to take that look and play with it. A recent photo shoot

by Jean-Baptiste Mondino is a good example.

Here, the heavy fabrics, cravats, vests and deep reds, violets and blues are taken out of their class context through intentional disheveling. While this boulevardier prefers a far more severe and almost cruel look, this shoot is a good fall look for the

crunchier readers.

The Handsome Devil’s in the Details Many aspiring mansies want to start out as a fashion star, but fashion is a process and one cannot go from Xtremist to boulevardier in one day, there is a learning curve; one that every mansy has and is going through. To begin, one cannot be afraid to utilize all the tools at his or her disposal, men’s fashion doesn’t give us many garment options so we must be able to flitter through them all without losing your personal style. Here are a couple garments of note this season: Cravat: Croatian activists have recently informed us that all ties, bowties and ascots are a form of cravat, derived from Louis XIV’s observance of Croatian pirates. Every mansy must have his or her personal take on the cravat, whether it is the classic

tie, worn best tucked into a button-up, or a sloppily tied piece of silk in the style of a bowtie, perhaps. Or, you might be the type that prefers a very long and thin piece of fabric that is tied at the neck and falls to the waist. There are numerous knots that you can use, the Windsor, the double Windsor, the Prince Albert and so on, or you can innovate your own knot. The ascot is a personal favorite of mine, you take a fine silk scarf (easily found at any free boutique or thrift store) and tie it in a loose knot on your collar. With a little practice and finagling, you will be able to produce a cascade effect with one end, pulled wide, flowing over the knot. As well, you can ignore fabric entirely and pin a broach at the neck, or if you are sassy, engage the Native American innovation of the bolo (the official state cravat of Arizona).

The Boulevardier

- Adam Tinnell

Feature Mansy Fashion Icon: Terence Koh

Vest: I recently heard an aspiring mansy proclaim that he went to a party and was dismayed that there was another mansy wearing a vest. I must point out that mansies have very very few options when it comes to stylish garments and the vest is one of the big ones. The vest is a garment that should be worn with discretion and only if it adds to your particular outfit, but there is no such thing as a “vest guy”, if there is, it is just another form of Xtremism. The vest is a basic garment, something that forms the foundation of an outfit and from which you can add flourishes with accessories or a cravat. You can use the vest as a flourish, but it needs to be exceptional, like a women’s vest from the 90’s (if you have ever been to a thrift store, you know what I mean).

However, for the most part the vest should simply set the stage for accessorizing.

The vest is a garment that should be worn with discretion and only if it adds to your particular outfit, but there is no such thing as a “vest guy”, if there is, it is just another form of Xtremism.

Accessories: These can be tricky for the aspiring mansy fashionista, but if you have a solid base for an outfit, you are free to add almost anything to your look and call it an accessory. Since any men’s accessory is a transgression these days, you are free to find the most sassy and outrageous thing you can get your hands on. Old women’s jewelry is something that seems to work well for mansies, broaches and gaudy necklaces are the classics, but there are lots of others out there, you simply need to look.

Sisterhood for Mansies The final, and most important hurtle for the aspiring mansy is the process of shopping. The unfortunate truth is that shopping at free stores and thrift stores is unbelievably exhausting, especially if you are new to fashion.

One thing that I’ve noticed is that when I shop with

other men they tend to be both obtuse and in a rush to get it over with. This reaction to shopping betrays a deeper trend in masculinity, the fear of closeness with other men and the fear of being seen.

In order to transcend this, I introduce the tactic of the fashion affinity group, a la the “Sex in the City” model.

A group of people to share a coffee with and chat about new free store finds and how to style them, people that help you sort through the endless racks looking for that perfect vest, people that help you take in those perfect Toile de Jouy pants, and people that will listen to you complain about the lack of single ____’s in the city.

Divorced from its capitalist intentions, Sex in the City represents that homosocial bonding and optimistic attitude toward styling that is at the heart of the fashion affinity group. Aspiring mansies need other mansies to help to learn the intricacies of fashion, not to mention that in creating support for the superficial it lays the foundation to make allies in other ways. Sisterhood is the perfect way to imagine this. Men’s counterpart, brotherhood, is a sham of a mockery when compared to sisterhood. What do men have? Repressed sexuality that is manifested in nationalism, war and sports. Men like to pretend that brothers will always be there no matter what, but this comradery has no expression outside of physical conflicts or the possibility to play a hero in some action movie. Instead of an emotional support network, men have a pat on the ass. Perhaps with the fashion affinity group, men can begin to attain some of the gifts of sisterhood: lifetime confidantes, people that know you inside and out and like you anyway, and fashion guidance. So with that said you need to schlep over to the library, ignore the name brand shout outs, and brush-up on your SATC. Till We Meet Again Now, armed to the teeth as you are, with sage sartorial advice, I urge you to rise to the occasion. Get gussied up!

You best go put on something special!

M

transformer

- Stephen Polk

An Anarchist Transformed at the American Political Science Association Conference, Or, A Call for Transforming Academia Along Anarchist Lines As far as I can tell, the American Political Science Association (APSA) conference is the premier conference of the entire political science profession. 7,000 political scientists from across the country and world, 70 presentations, award ceremonies, pageantry, official name tags, and a book fair all contained in an enormous convention center super structure inter-connected to a dizzying shopping mall maze giving way further to hotels, restaurants, other uppermiddle-class accoutrements and, yes, a chapel complete with priest and congregation. No joke, there was a fucking church in the mall! APSA 2008 Boston: political scientists at their best.

ers on the panel were mostly graduate students and were more or less in a similar position to mine: anarchists living in communities, primarily engaging in anarchist and radical politics and community while also attending graduate school. For most of us, this was our first panel presentation at any political science conference. The only exception was the professor who organized the panel, presenting a paper on ontological anarchism via Hakim Bey and the temporary autonomous zone. Because of this, we didn’t really know what to expect. Earlier in the conference, most of us had gone to the other panel on anarchism which was well-attended. We were excited and a bit nervous at the prospect of a similar turnout for our panel. This was not the case, however, and as I will explain below, this occurrence is indicative of the current state of academia.

Academics discoursed on the philosophical dilemmas of anarchism, unwilling or unable to fully commit to a philosophy of human scaled ethics that firmly, uncompromisingly, places humanity above profit, the state, ‘free-trade’ or any other abstract notion or ideology that enables or perpetuates any numerous forms of exploitation or oppression.

I took part in the whole thing, enthusiastically, seizing nearly every experience I could, because really, why not?

I left for Boston as an ambassador —an ambassador to anarchism. I regarded my role with a strong sense of duty and self-importance. I was presenting a paper that explores how anarchists are acting (direct democracy, community and ecological design) within neoliberal urban areas of the global north. And, though I had a vague conception of what I was up against, a vague idea of what academia was all about as a graduate student just finishing my first year in the program, I couldn’t help but feel a deep sense of cynicism upon leaving, a bitter taste in my mouth that still lingers to this day. This is a short tale of my experiences, my cynicism, and moreover, a necessary critique of academia that has been fueling a recent intellectual transformation as an anarchist entrenched in the pits of higher education. I conclude with a call for a transformation of academia along anarchist lines.

The panel I presented on was titled: Anarchy in Action: Contemporary Theory and Practice. The three co-present-

My participation in the conference effectively broke me from a naiveté that rested on the false notion that academia’s sole function is the search for truth, or understanding, or that the academic’s studies are solely for the betterment of humanity. An idealized vision of the academicas-altruist crumbled before my eyes with every panel presentation I attended; which was surprising being that I attended nearly every ‘radical’ panel that was presented. I was befuddled, sitting in conference rooms with academics watching other academics employ wretchedly beautiful, complex, and all too often, unintelligible analyses of radical politics, mostly from Marxist perspectives. It is important to note that radical academics love Marx. They coddle his theories like a capitalist coddles surplus labor, and in fact, Marxism has become the source of many careers in higher education, commodified in so many unintelligible, published articles that bolster resumes of professors seeking tenure or intellectual prowess. Actual social change, or movement building, seems less than an afterthought in the whole process.

The only other panel on anarchism, as I mentioned above, was almost just as confusing. Academics discoursed on the philosophical dilemmas of anarchism, unwilling or unable to fully commit to a philosophy of human scaled ethics that firmly, uncompromisingly, places humanity above profit, the state, ‘free-trade’ or any other abstract notion or ideology that enables or perpetuates any numerous forms of exploitation or oppression. It was nothing but surreal. There we all sat attending this panel on anarchism, confused or theo-

retically impotent yet not letting on, while anarchists were busy on the ground in communities in Denver, Lawrence, New York, Gainesville and Portland, closer in geographical proximity than intellectual affinity.

I witnessed firsthand the befuddlement of anarchism as a growing form of revolutionary praxis into a purely sanitized, esoteric academic exercise. In Boston, if community, in the revolutionary sense of the word, passed the lips of an academic, it didn’t invoke the process of people working together in cooperation or possessing common goals or ideas as they are found in radical communities.

Rather, the word was tossed about as another embattled word, stripped of any meaning beyond the sterile pages of another esoteric academic journal. It was spoken without direct experience of a real community. If the academic dared to speak of anarchism, treating anarchism as they do Marxism, it was spoken of in the tone of careerism: technical, arrogant, complex…basically everything that anarchism isn’t or strives against.

formation. And here it becomes necessary to start asking some very fundamental questions regarding anarchism and education.

What does anarchist education look like? How would a consensus-based classroom function? What role does community, autonomous education, and ecological and social sustainability play in higher education? How do we begin to implement these ideas within academia itself?

And if we can’t satisfy these questions within contemporary academia, perhaps it is necessary to form our own institutions. It may come as no surprise, then, that many anarchists in the Denver community are trying to do just this.

M

The academic is a careerist. And however much I am being overly cynical here—that there are in fact many academics who do contribute immensely to community and to society at large—the point being that academia is a mainstream institution existing in an extremely aggressive and manipulative market economy. The academic as a member of a functioning and vibrant community is rare while the academic as a peddler of ineffectual ideas is most common. This perhaps explains why a panel dealing primarily with action and practice was not well attended.

And it is when the function of academia is the packaging of ideas to be consumed, when specialization in any certain field occurs at the expense of action or practice within community and society, is the moment when academia is merely a self-perpetuating milieu operating as just another cog in the current market economy.

As I witnessed and took part in the whole debacle, I realized that the academic’s job is to attend conferences, publish articles, and critique theory until their eyes bleed.

It forced me to realize that any far-reaching social movement will not emerge from the annals of contemporary academia. Or if a social movement were to gather its initial strength from a top-down, overly-specialized academy, just how important it would be to resist this form of a movement. And furthermore, I realized the importance and vitality of anarchism as a social theory and practice, a praxis based on plurality through consensus or direct democracy, a praxis that resists specialization through an ideology that does not discount theory at the expense of action or vice-versa. Anarchism, at least to me, is the actual implementation of revolutionary cultures that dare to critique global capitalism while providing tangible, nonauthoritarian answers at the same time. This is the face of a growing social movement with nothing but limitless potential for revolutionary politics. Academia could learn a thing or two from anarchists, lest they continue along the path of economic, social, and political insolvency.

With all of this said, it seems that I am in prime position to abandon academia altogether. And believe me, I have waivered on this decision time and again over the past half year. Abandoning academia, I believe, is not an effective course of action, currently. Without abundant alternatives—such as our own institutions of higher education—it is necessary for anarchists to critique and expose the truly limiting, truly authoritarian tendencies ingrained throughout the academy for purposes of trans-

Anarchism, at least to me, is the actual implementation of revolutionary cultures that dare to critique global capitalism while providing tangible, non-authoritarian answers at the same time. This is the face of a growing social movement with nothing but limitless potential for revolutionary politics. Academia could learn a thing or two from anarchists, lest they continue along the path of economic, social, and political insolvency.

Transcendental - Sarah “magic pony” Jackson

Two Crows

There were two crows fat on a stone The winter sun sat pale and low A rabbit snared stretched on the ground Crows’ tracks pressed close on bloodied snow

One bird shook its carrion claw Broke the silence with one harsh cry A gunshot split the air again Dark ragged wings pushed back the sky

The hunter grave beside the hare Sees careless, eye-plucked work of thieves Slips over head and curls the snare And brushing snow from mud-stiff sleeves

Takes up again the shifting weight Of bodies soft in canvas sack He leans into a needles wind And does not hear the forest crack

But when the winter moon is high And two crows sleep in jagged nest Dark matter takes a hare’s lithe form The universe again at rest

transmogrify

“Daytime Dreamfun: Daydream Funtime is the transmogrification of a pretender into what it’s pretending to be. It is bringing wishes to life. All the outfits are inspired by vintage sportswear, they are meant to be played in, the clothing is a medium for fun. They are meant to be worn on vacation or on your free time, they stand for privilege and for leisure. The characters are the emobodiment of imagination, they are the image of make-believe except they are real. It’s one form becoming another in a magical way.” - fashion illustration and LV night fasion show, courtesy designer Rianna Brown.

translucence

Dreaming, Sleeping, Dying

- Seth Klekamp

Transgender Liberation

by Leslie Feinberg

Ancient religion, before the division of society into classes, combined collectively held beliefs with material observations about nature. Christianity as a mass religion began in the cities of the Roman empire among the poor, and incorporated elements of collectivism and hatred of the rich ruling class. But over several hundred years, Christianity was transformed from a revolutionary movement of the urban poor into a powerful state religion that served the wealthy elite.

Transgender in all its forms became a target. In reality it was the rise of private property, the male-dominated families and class divisions that led to narrowing what was considered acceptable self-expression. What had been natural was declared its opposite.

As the Roman slave-based system of production disintegrated it was gradually replaced by feudalism. Laborers who once worked in chains were now chained to the land.

Christianity was an urban religion. But the ruling classes were not yet able to foist their new economic system, or the religion that sought to defend it, on the peasantry.

The word pagan derives from the Latin paganus, which meant rural dweller or peasant. It would soon become a codeword in a violent class war.

Even after the rise of feudalism, remnants of the old pagan religion remained.

It was joyously prosexual- lesbian, gay, bisexual and straight. Many women were among its practitioners. Many shamans were still transvestites. And transvestism was still a part of virtually all rural festivals and rituals.

In the medieval Feast of Fools, laymen and clergy alike dressed as women. The Faculty of Theology at the University of Paris reported priests “who danced in the choir dressed as women.�

But in order for the land-owning Catholic church to rule, it had to stamp out the old beliefs that persisted from pre-class communal societies, because they challenged private ownership of the land.

Ancient respect for transgendered people still had its roots in the peasantry.

Transvestism played an important role in rural cultural life. Many pagan religious leaders were transgendered. So it was not surprising that the Catholic church hunted down male and female transvestites, labeling them as heretics, and tried to ban and suppress transvestism from all peasant rituals and celebrations.

By the 11th century, the Catholic church- by then the largest landlord in Western Europe- gained the organizational and military strength to wage war against the followers of the old beliefs. The campaign was carried out under a religious banner- but it was a class war against the vestiges of the older communal societies.

celebrity gossip

Bunnies in Transition

- Brandi Smith

This edition of Louis Vuitton celebrity gossip brings you news of transition from that famous House of Bunny otherwise known as the Playboy Mansion. The originator of the term Playboy, the man known uniqueness and life to their home. Granted their for his refusal to adhere to traditional monogamy, Hugh Hefner, is allegedly down a girlfriend. And not just any girlfriend, his main squeeze and primary girl for about the last seven years, Holly Madison has flown the bunny hutch in search of um…greener and more “fertile” pastures.

Holly has starred alongside Hef’s other two girlfriends Kendra Wilkenson and Bridget Marquardt for the last few years in the ridiculously popular and addictive ‘Girls Next Door’, an intimate picture of days in the life of Hef’s girlfriends. The internet has been abuzz with the rumors of Holly finally calling it quits with Hef after years of trying to get pregnant and coming to terms with the reality that she isn’t going to be procreating like a real bunny any time soon.

These rumors began around the same time as some nagging items about Hef’s youngest girlfriend Kendra moving on herself and pursuing a new love interest. Though Kendra has substantiated nothing, both Holly and Hef personally confirmed the end of their relationship, and now begins speculation of who the next girlfriends to populate the mansion will be…

With these likely changes, perhaps a transition in the way we see Hef and his buxom bunny empire?

The many seasons of the ‘Girls Next Door’ gave us an opportunity to see Hef as less of a Playboy archetype and more of a sweet old guy who really loves his work and his three girlfriends. ‘The Girls Next Door’ gave America a peek at what polygamy might actually look like on the inside, and it wasn’t the awful, patriarchal bore we thought it might be. Instead we saw a family unit made up of an unlikely host of characters who each brought a

home was a lavish mansion, and granted the girls were buxom blonde bombshells whose voice inflexions and giggles immediately brought to mind images of the quintessential bimbo, but that was just the surface.

Perhaps the most surprising thing of all was that Holly, Bridget, and Kendra were genuinely friends with, and friendly to, one another. The set up of the show automatically assumes that three women are in competition for the attentions of the rich old man and that all manner of girl on girl crime will ensue. Surprisingly and refreshingly, the interactions between the girlfriends are supportive, sweet, and devoid of the girl acrimony so rampant in other media representations. With the bunny house in flux and the possibility of some new faces appearing in the mansion and on the upcoming episodes of ‘The Girls Next Door’, one has to wonder if this bizarro Camelot has seen its end?

M

underbelly

- Michael Payne

The Vuittonite Review is pleased to rejoin that stylish duo of the transnational underground art set - our chic, cultivated narrator and his manservant Olan - in their high jinx and misadventures, in this the second installment of Underbelly. When last we left our heroes, they had just returned from a lovely spell in Italia, to their sometime homebase in Berlin. Never ones to dawdle, the pair soon find themselves in a subterranean salon, hobnobbing with the usual avant garde socialite suspects whilst having a few gin and whatevers. All this is seeming so old hat, when a mysterious, attractive young fella enters the picture, making his way over. . . Let’s see what transpires, shall we?

Chapter 2: The Glitter Knights I faced the bar as the scoundrel squeezed in between a be-speckled Scot and a rotund man whose garrulous falsetto threatened to shatter his associate’s eyewear. The ruffian I had been stalking was, again, just out of earshot but close enough to gesture absurdly at our surroundings. I chuckled at his impression of the fat man. Before I could rattle off something charming and hilarious over the crowd and the music, the lothario bartender, was leaning across the granite nearly licking the young man’s chin.

The ruffian leaned in as well and ordered vodka, neat, which he apparently needn’t pay for, and stared at me over his glass. I was beginning to think he was a pro with all his choreographed vamping. He was just Kasper Doyle’s type: smooth, strong and filthy-eyed.

He could easily find himself in the choice stable of young men that the fastidious Master Doyle tended to keep on a very short leash.

Kasper Doyle (the Irish fuck), I knew well enough. It was not so long ago that I was in regular company of him; his inflated character and the perpetual crime story that surrounded his days and nights. Doyle ran the salacious Garden of Ganymede: a boy farm for the eccentrics with rich tastes and the rich with eccentric ones. As an emergent painter with somewhat of a name, I had been both - peculiar at first, then wealthy. Doyle, who fancied old Hollywood, was infamous for throwing his “pool boy” parties. He often masqueraded as the head of a major film studio and would invite his “fresh faces” to his LAstyle spa bash. The fact that I had lived in Los Angeles for a time secured my invitation to every event. I had eventually acquired a carnal knowledge of the men in Kasper’s employ.

After all, it was better than cruising the go-go bars and blacked out rooms. Much better.

Kasper had superior taste in boys and drugs, although his sense of almost everything else was desperately tacky. Of course, that life was a hundred years ago when I was less ingenious than ingenuous. Still, I haven’t heard from the Irish bugger in over a year, so I was uncertain of my original hunch. I imagine this porcelain prince may be a smidge too pale for Berlin’s King of Tinsel town. However, I still had my suspicions. I’m sure Kasper wasn’t the only game, anymore.

I was well into a healthy buzz when I found myself in the bathroom with a gaggle of Gina Regina-files snorting the courage to fulfill their tender-toothed confessions of love and lust. I poorly pretended I wasn’t doing the same. When I finished, I pissed into a hole in the wall, leered at the ass of a tattooed urinalist and slid through the crowd using it to hold me upright. I wasn’t sloppy just yet, but I’m certain I needed that bump to get back to the bar. Olan was waiting for me and suggested that we make our leave, reminding me that we had late lunch plans with a friend the following afternoon. I considered my mystery boy for a moment and decided that I’d rather run into him in better sorts. He seemed the type to stitch his nights together, so I was confident that he’d be out tomorrow evening. I was already piecing an outfit together in my mind.

We slurred our “Auf weidersens” and wobbled down the boulevard to our suite, but not without a bout of insensitive goose stepping that Olan put a swift, slappy end to (stupid American). As we approached the hotel, my dependable assistant recounted the tittle that side-winded from Lady Amelia’s lips and we laughed aloud, filling the silence that hung between the blackened buildings. We fetched our key, which was attached to a gaudy miniature stein, from the night desk and sardined ourselves into a tiny elevator – the sort that afflicts most European hotels. We had noticed that our floor was mostly full when we checked in, so we remained quiet to our rooms, but sighed rather audibly once safely in our accommodations. I forwent a shower, feeling the cross-country train ride weighing on my eyelids now, and fell fast asleep. I dreamt of criminals and fat women, with no sign of my scoundrel prince.

The late morning sun oozed in from the balcony doors on tendrils of smoke. From the smell of burnt bark I knew the smoke was from Olan’s ghastly French cigarettes. I was still in my clothes from the night before and desperately felt the need to stand prone under a scalding shower. My head was spongy and my nostrils were sealed in protest of the street drugs I had tried to hide in them the night before. My eyes, stubborn to open, rolled towards the entrance of the bathroom. I begged the rest of my body to, at the very least, collapse in the direction of the tub. Water on!

The pressure was weak. I had forgotten that most European showers were little more than a telephone handset-like nozzle that one held over one’s head - a task that seemed impossible in my current condition. I contemplated calling Olan to stand in as my shower grip but quickly felt a thundering heartbeat in my skull and decided to lie in the narrow tub with the handset on my throbbing noggin. The water felt wonderful on my face.

After a lengthy drench, I was awake. Olan had a breakfast of poached eggs, goose liver and

I considered my mystery boy for a moment and decided that I’d rather run into him in better sorts. He seemed the type to stitch his nights together, so I was confident that he’d be out tomorrow evening. I was already piecing an outfit together in my mind.

toast points brought to the room. It sat relatively untouched. The coffee was thin, too hot and a far cry from the Mediterranean mornings that I was suddenly nostalgic for. I took up watch on the balcony and thought of telephoning Mareike, my European Agent, who was in town with a prolific new sculptor from Cardiff.

Mareike Diamond was the type of woman that seemed to have always been successful and popular. She began early, as a ruthless socialite, sliding to the center of every crowd on an oil slick of her family’s textile wealth. Like an irreverent flapper, she challenged the institutions around her (none more so than the many boys’ clubs) and preferred the company of artists and intellects - the kind that seemed to hemorrhage into Europe every spring. Although she had a moderate and private talent of her own, she knew her faculties were better suited to representing the painters, scribblers and sculptors that composed her legion. They gave her the street credibility that threatened her blue-blooded peers and she made them a living – often quite a good one. This welder from Wales was the new star in the Diamond constellation, and I was eager to welcome him to the family.

After a slothful morning, I dressed in a casual touring outfit as our day would be mainly spent on the pavement, in galleries and at bistro tables. We would return to change clothes just after sundown, so I packed a small tote with breath mints, eye drops and a tiny camera for quick reference snaps. OIan had made reservations at two of the new exclusive exhibitions and a late lunch in Prenzlauer Berg with an old roommate and fellow art hooligan, Isaak. And like a mind reader, Olan had also invited Mareike and the Welsh sculptor.

The city smelled of cement dust in the morning, but as the sun warmed the small patches of grass and garden flowers bloomed and sweetened the air. Our first viewing was an installation piece in an old Stasi stronghold that took us farther east than I would have preferred to walk, but Olan insisted that the exercise would be good for my hangover. However, I had yet to see the statistics for that absurd claim. I did find the intermittent gardens to be very nice.

Mareike Diamond was the type of woman that seemed to have always been successful and popular. She began early, as a ruthless socialite, sliding to the center of every crowd on an oil slick of her family’s textile wealth. Like an irreverent flapper, she challenged the institutions around her (none more so than the many boys’ clubs) and preferred the company of artists and intellects - the kind that seemed to hemorrhage into Europe every spring.

Once we found the place (that, incidentally, looked like one of many in a row of nondescript, grey buildings), we had a five minute wait before the doors opened. I used the time to sit a spell. Once inside, the walls were pasted with massive propaganda posters that were meant to make the viewer feel diminutive. The images, lifted and deconstructed from actual Communist prints, were graphic and powerful. It was a bit fresh-from-art-school, but it was well executed, and if the artist was being represented by Domina Winters, as it mentioned on his press card, he was certainly on the fast track.

The second show was much lighter fare and was another of Domina’s artists. It wasn’t entirely staged yet, but we were in a select group of fellow bohemians privy to an advance showing of Malcolm Huntington’s new collection of over-inflated cryptozoic characters. Mareike and the sculptor, Drystan (as I’d learned), met us there,

by Olan’s design, and after introductions, had a good snicker at the comical menagerie. They were wonderfully large and monstrously adorable like a petting zoo of mushroom hallucinations.

To Be Continued.

M

transfixed

Dublin’s Sophie Iremonger interprets Jackie Beat’s video “Baby Got Front”

genesis p.orridge

continued from transillumination...

continued from transcultural . . .

Meanwhile, on Rue Jasmine, I start throwing little cookies behind the sink to attract mice.

Helene is already throwing out our food, randomly, saying she wants to clean the fridge.

Plus, one night the Manchester girl comes back frantic. She was at a payphone, and some guy showed her his dick, through the glass wall. She ran down the street in high heels, and he got into his little car and chased her. She got into the flat, and he paused then drove off. So she was pretty upset, but Helene just laughed it off. Meanwhile, the mice start to wander the flat! Hooray.

Artist Bio:

Dylan Scholinski currently resides in Denver, CO and is a distinguished artist, author, and public speaker. Dylan has appeared on 20/20, Dateline and Today to discuss his experiences and has been featured in a variety of newspapers and magazines.

Recently his award winning book (The Last Time I Wore a Dress: A Memoir - Penguin/Putnam) was listed in the Top 10 Must Reads in Out Magazine’s first Transgender Issue. Dylan is the founder/ witness for the Sent(a)Mental Project : A Memorial to GLBTIQQA Suicide. He spends much of his time working in his studio, public speaking, creating zines - such as Freedom of Depression, Please Forgive Me For Judging You, Sent(a)Mental, 3 Hole Punch - and is a loyal Redsox and Cubs fan.

Excerpt from Dylan’s Artist Statement: “ I don’t think in terms of gay/straight, male/ female; who is more over this way or that way.

I believe that if we just came to terms that we are all both, it wouldn’t matter, and we would begin to see ourselves in everyone.”

For more info about these and other projects contact Dylan at: www.sentamentalstudios.weebly.com Sent(a)Mental Studios PO Box 2537 Denver, CO 80201

School goes absolutely nowhere, I could learn more about American literature back home, rather than in Paris. After I left, students started throwing desks at riot police outside, so i missed out. I lose touch with the Romanian, thankfully. and the big black guy still scares people, and the Parisians hate him because his French is atrocious. So, life sucks pretty bad, and I talk to my French advisor, and I come up with the idea of just bailing ship and coming home, and he doesn’t argue with me.

He says the French department is pretty mad at the study abroad department, but I don’t think anything happened. I leave Helene’s flat in the morning, before she wakes up.

On my way back, I take the train through the suburbs, which are the nastiest areas I’ve ever seen, people living next to smokestacks, all grey neighborhoods. I make a mistake and I lose my ticket and almost don’t make it off the subway, but the guard takes pity on me.

Then I catch my flight, and on my way back I help some guys out with info on navigating Manhattan. Then, I drop out of school and go to Colorado. M

thanks for picking up the vuittonite review! the next theme is:

past/future: kill the now

[local history, water under the bridge, og anarchy, things you can’t/don’t want to get over, all tomorrows’ parties, anarchy in the 21st century, apocalypse (harbringer of the rev or leftist mysticism?), 21st century, time in general, say no to living for the present! ] * C R E D I T S * Editor) Kate Kershenstein Untitled, William Bowman.

Cover) Adam Tinnell. p.8) Man A Kin, Dylan Scholinski. p.25) Venus Fly Trap, Selene Bautista. p.26) Peter Berlin.

p.9-11) Gary Farrelly. p.13-14) Brassai. p.15) The Boulevardier, Sheena. p.18) p.27) Beautifuls, Selene Bautista.

Back Cover) Bubble, Sophie Iremonger.