Thrwd Magazine | Issue 1

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INSIDE/ Issue #1

Q+A 1

thrwd

BWare 9

adjective 1. being propelled through space by the forward motion of creativity. 2. a state of insobriety beyond the point by which one can make rational decisions. 3. another word for : cool, dope, cray cray, or fuck’d up.

Words 13

Booty Talk 23

[thro- .d]

Javi Valadez Creative Director The Merry Prankster Editor-N-Chief Mason LaHue Art Director

Contributors: Blair Whatley Brian Bui Daniel De La Rosa Justin Mosholder Chris Daniel Stephen Ketner Ronald Meeks Juan J. Vasquez Lori Toerpe Allie Hubbard Kacey Dowd Jack & Harleen

Artist To Artist 25

Trevor Shin Illustrator

Cover Shoot 29

On the Cover Photograph by Shayna Fontana Model: Paizley Sloane Wallflower Management

Blame Blair 33

Freedom 36

Web thrwd.com

Contact Us info@thrwd.com


Letter From The Editor -Are you THRWD? Before you answer, let me clarify. I don’t mean high, white-boy wasted, drunk, or stoned - although those are perfectly fine states of being. What I’m asking is, are you THRWD on life? I’m talking fucked up on creativity, faded on expression? Good. That means you’re alive. Being THRWD is what this magazine’s all about. The contributors, artists, writers, musicians, photographers and creative minds in this magazine are here to get you THRWD. We wanna give people a hit of inspiration. Open your mind to new ideas, styles and concepts. This magazine started because of dissatisfaction with what local blogs, newspapers and magazines were giving us. It’s an open invitation to everyone from the full spectrum of the arts to get THRWD together. The simple act of reading this puts you on the first step to getting THRWD. Read it on the train, while taking a shit, or after a long fuck. Know someone that deserves recognition? Let us know: Email us, Tweet us or write on our Facebook wall. We’ll do our best to cover as much as possible. Get the conversation going. That’s why we created a magazine instead of a blog. We want to bring back that age-old question, “What are you reading?” We’re not hating on technology, we’re just saying it’s time to stop and smell the pages. We’re just like you, a couple of fun-loving shitheads looking to have a good time. We want THRWD to be a party starter, making summer the perfect backdrop to our first issue as we cheers being an independent magazine showcasing independent artists. We’re putting the “freedom” back in freedom of the press by giving the streets of Dallas a voice. Dallas is our home. Staying local is our first priority. We’ll still touch on national trends that we all enjoy like how we’re living in the greatest era of Hip-Hop, what to wear to this summer’s hottest music festivals or how beards can make or break a relationship. We’ll introduce you to local artists born and bred in Dallas, a few who left and came back, and the ones who came here to survive. If you’re ready, join us. Turn the page and let’s get THRWD. Forever THRWD, The Merry Prankster Editor-N-Chief


Q+A

on the cover of Papercity?

T: How does your work reflect your sense of style? S: I’d hate to pigeonhole myself or my work because I like to think of myself as really open to different styles and tastes, but there are certainly details of different decades that I’ve always been drawn to. I’m really into ’60s fashion, and I love the way women presented themselves back then. T: What was your experience like being

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shaynafontana.com

S: I wouldn’t really say that I see it as a “time machine,” but I do enjoy that a certain element of the past often appears in my photos.

shaynafontana.tumblr.com

THWRD: Do you see your lens as a time machine to capture that nostalgic feeling to your photography?

S: Having one of my photos appear on the cover of “Papercity” was really exciting for me. It was surprising because I wouldn’t really expect a publication like that to be interested in the style of my work, let alone use it for the cover. It’s encouraging to receive actual proof that other people are into what you’re doing, because sometimes you don’t know if what you’re doing is even appealing to anyone but you.


SHAYNA FONTANA



T R A M A I N E TOW N S E N D

Q+A

It’s still a heavy work in progress. T: Where does your inspiration come from?

THRWD: How did you come up with the concept for this series of photography?

themisadventuresofflaco.com

T: What other projects do you also have in the works? tramaintownsend.com

TT: I’ve come to the realization that anyone can take a photograph these days. It can also get lost in the millions upon billions of ones you see every day. The name of this series I’m currently digging is called Lost Angles. I’ve taken the imagery that I’ve taken, whether old or new, and started to dissect it. To where I’ve created new images from people I’ve photographed, revolving mostly of landscapes and random misadventures. It’s more of a darker side to it. Which quite possibly involves some inner demons.

TT: Design and nature for this series which plays around with symmetry and repetition overall. It’s a calming force to me to see things repeated and in order. As if you see another image within the work itself.

TT: I’ve revisited my Motionographer series again after a long hiatus. It has become a lot larger and beginning to be done with a lot more precision. This getting more abstract with the subjects I shoot and its execution process. T: What’s the weirdest shit you’ve ever taken a picture of? TT: I think I’ll keep the mystery weird. Don’t want to reveal that just yet. Trying to become president one day...

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KENNETH LE Q+A THRWD: Three quick questions: Where do you find your inspiration? How relevant is music to your artwork? Do you love or hate cats? K: For this series, music directly influenced my prints. I was essentially making mock gig posters and incorporating my own handwritten typography to personify the artists I was listening to at the moment. And I have a love-hate relationship with cats. Some of them are straight bitches.

“... I have a love-hate relationship with cats. Some of them are straight bitches.” T: What bands have you been listening to lately? K: Kendrick Lamar, A$AP Rocky, Ab-Soul, Odd Future, Dizzy Wright, and a lot of newer hip-hop artist. Not many bands. The Mars Volta and XX. Other new wave synth-y stuff like Blood Orange and Class Actress. T: Are you starting your own band or doing a collaboration? K: Not sure. I had something going on called arts movement for a while with friends from Austin which I’m hoping to bring out of hiatus (laughs).

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DIEGO VILLA Q+A

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diegovillaart@gmail.com

D: I think art is something I was meant to do. My earliest memories are of me drawing shitty things and thinking about how awesome they were. When I was younger, I was very different from all of the assholes I went to school with. I grew up in a very small town located in the middle of the desert. So I had a lot of free time to think about life

facebook.com/wearescreenprinters

THRWD: Is art something you’ve always wanted to do or is there something else you would be as passionate toward?

and the things that truly interested me. I think there are other things that can keep me as happy as art does, but fuck that. T: What’s one of the most memorable things you’ve done lately? D: I recently became a father. I definitely think that’s the most memorable event I’ve experienced in my entire life. T: Do you believe in aliens?


D: I have a strongheld belief in the evolution of life on other planets. Unfortunately, things like religion and western media have managed to distort our ideas on how they may appear and their intentions for making their presence more aware to the world.

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ARTIST ADVENTURER ACTIVIST

}BWARE

by THE MERRY PRANKSTER What would you be willing to risk

for what you love? Your possessions? Your time? Your citizenship? Your family? Your life? “Here’s how crazy I am,” Dallas graffiti artist BWare is about to tell us how far he would go. “I was like 16 years old,” he says. “Over by Northwest Highway on top of this abandoned strip club, no one really gives a fuck about those.” True. “It was about 5 p.m. on a Saturday,” he says. “Cars, traffic, and a lot of Hispanic dudes. That’s North Dallas. You see a lot of people in their big trucks, just pumping their music like ‘Duh dun duh dun duh dun.’ Here I am, not giving a fuck, just writing, they can see me, people are honking at me. I was just like, ‘Fuck it.” The last words of many a dead martyr. “That’s the ego coming in,” he says. His mouth turns into a seductive smile. He needs to call his ego out by name, “That’s the BWare coming in.” He continues. “My buddy was at the bottom, being a lookout,” he says. “But there’s no point in being a lookout cuz everyone can see me. As soon as I get

down, this truck comes down and parks right there in front of us. It’s an old white dude.” He looks around to see if any gringos are around, and then continues, “A real redneck dude.” “He gets out and was like, ‘What the fuck are you doing?’” he says. “At first I thought he was just some citizen trying to be all righteous, but I think he was actually the owner of the place cuz he was like ‘Don’t fucking move, stay right there.” And he pulls out his cell phone to call the cops and I tell my friend, ‘Oraley, Guey!’ “ “We both start chopping and end up going separate ways,” he continues. “We go into a huge parking lot and I turn around and I see my friend and he’s running on the other side. At the same time I look back and I see the fucking guy chasing us in his truck.” You can already see a modern day version of that iconic landing strip scene of North By Northwest, but with a young Mexican Jimmy Stewart running for his life. “This guy wanted to get us,” he says. “At the end we see this alley leading to bunch of houses and we meet at that point,” he points out. “We could kind of sense when our lives were fucked. This guy wasn’t a cop, he wasn’t gonna take us to jail, he could of fucking shot us. So we see


a house with a little fence and my friend jumps and here I am, I have the paint cans, and I throw them but as I threw them they land in the middle of the yard.” This is where shit turns into Sandlot the sequel. “Just as I hit the yard, there’s the meanest fucking pitbull,” he says wide eyed. ‘He was chained up, but it wasn’t chained up to nothing. I was so booty tight, I jumped so high I made it to the other side and that’s when we saw the guy passing by on the other side. We hid out for two hours in these ghetto apartments cuz we were so scared.”

"IT’S LIKE DOING CRYSTAL METH ... I KNOW IT’S GOING TO KILL ME, BUT I’M STILL SHOOTING IT UP." The next day he went right back to tagging. And to think, less than ten

years ago as a kid in Mexico City, he hated graffiti. “Mexico City is tagged up the ass,” he says. “It’s almost damaging to the eye. I grew up with the mentality that graffiti was bad.” Once he arrived in America, the cultural history of American graffiti changed the way he saw tagging. “I used to think it was purely destructive, which part of it still is,” he says. “This country gave birth to something really badass. It started with the caveman writing on the walls, but the true art of American graffiti started here on trains and walls, it’s one of the four tenets of hip-hop culture along with, B-Boying, DJing and MCing.” He began to see the big picture, “I stopped seeing random tags and started to see the whole production.” His appreciation for the history and mythology behind graffiti can be seen in his art. His large scale legal productions located in Deep Ellum, incorporate icons and imagery from Egyptian and Native American cultures. His focus on scope, and how each tag repre-


sents a smaller piece in a larger puzzle is communicated in his use of geometric shapes. “A lot of the imagery just comes out of my head,” he says. “I see something from the most randomness place. Like I could see a candle, and then later on I’m drawing it and dissecting it into triangles.” It took time and a few near-death experiences for BWare to get to a place where graffiti became just as much about creating, as destroying. Upon his arrival to Dallas as a teen, BWare gravitated towards the anarchy of gang graffiti. He fucked around with gangbangers, destroying property and tagging other people’s buildings. The turning point came when he would scour the internet and find photos of works by Dallas legends like Optic 19 and Joe Skillz. 11

“I started to leave the gang crap behind and really started doing the graffiti,” he says. “It was because of the stuff I saw going on in Dallas.” Graffiti became more than just an act of rebellion, although that remained a crucial part of the process. “It signifies pure energy,” he says. ”You become one with the environment. It’s really personal because it’s that one spot you grab for yourself and you make it your own. You know it’s eventually gonna be buffed off, but that’s the beauty of it, it’s not permanent. If we get lucky, maybe it’ll run for a couple of years.” BWare says for most graffiti artists, the purpose of making art is as much about process, as product. “I experience an adrenaline rush, cuz you know what you’re doing is bad,” he says. “ You can sugarcoat it, you can put sprinkles or

a butterfly on your graffiti, but if you don’t have permission, it’s illegal. The simplest little tag can fuck you up. It’s really addictive. If people don’t watch out, it overtakes them. That’s when the ego kicks in.” BWare doesn’t just practice his art, this dude lives it. He sums up his art as a lifeline rather than a pastime. “It’s like doing crystal meth,” he says. “I know it’s gonna fucking kill me but I’m still shooting it up.” BWare creates graffiti productions, both legal and illegal, around the DFW area. The photos shown above are of his murals in Deep Ellum. He runs with the CTK, the Cut Throat Killers, along with Worts, Raze, Idea and Over, who he said have been huge inspirations.



BLANK TOERPE

by LORI

Facial hair: a trending phenomenon in 75% of men ages 18-35. Très chic. The first U.S. President with a beard was Abraham Lincoln, and if you recall he’s credited with putting an end to slavery. Pretty BAMF-y. Maybe it was actually Lincoln who brought sexy back, and it just took us a while to catch on. The hipster handlebar, the full-on folk artist beard, hippie vegan mange, meathead goatees— whatever your preferred style, I figured I’d use it as an opportunity to take a few bearded boys from my past and put an intimate twist on my thoughts about hairy little faces. The bearded boys have been named accordingly…

Smart Beard

You’re probably the most intelligent man I’ve ever known. You knew all these things that nobody else did, and it was pretty fucking hot. What totally ruined it for me was everything that accompanied the wise, all-knowing persona you cultivated for yourself: The dry sense of humor that offended all my friends, random remarks on obscure topics that nobody else understood and the old-man beard that served no purpose but to intensify a cliché. You even smoked a pipe and drank scotch. It was like I was try13

(ILLUSTRATION: TREVOR SHIN)

BEARDS

ing to get with Gandalf or something. You couldn’t just be yourself; you had to be this bearded intellectual guy all the time. And the beard actually made you less legit in the end—a chilly disguise that hid your good heart, a hairy strategy that made you too smart to relate to anyone. And that shit is lame. It separates you from the rest of the world in all the wrong ways. For your sake, I hope you’re a lot softer now than you were back then. It feels better. Love always, the young lady temporarily blinded by your bearded light.

Young Beard

At first I couldn’t understand why I kept agreeing to hang out with you. It didn’t make any kind of sense and I knew it was weird. We were a highly unlikely pair. But then after a while, I didn’t really give a shit. We felt good together. You had a way of erasing our difference in age, like the years wouldn’t quite matter if we put on the right songs and outran the sun. You knew all the books of the Bible. I liked that. I still do. And once, I pulled over so you could catch a stray kitten, that shit still turns me on. And maybe I liked your beard so much because it made you appear older and wiser. It was kind of scraggly and unkempt. It eased the


} “STILL, THE BUTTERFLIES IN MY STOMACH REMAINED UNFAZED EVERY TIME YOU ENTERED A ROOM, BOUGHT ME A DRINK, OR ROMANTICALLY ASKED IF I WANTED TO SEE YOUR DICK.”

weird part is that you still got more ass than anyone I knew. And you probably still do. So FatBeard, much respect. My love.

} impending confusion I was starting to feel about the chemistry between us. But even with the beard, I don’t think either of us knew what to do with it all. And now we only have the courage to see each other when other people are around. So in another time and place that lives inside my mind, we’re young enough to give it a shot and old enough to know what it means. C’est la vie. YoungBeards should fly high and free.

Hot Beard

Hot Beard was fine as hell and so fucking stupid. For real, the guy was just not bright. We were both flight attendants with bigger dreams. The difference between his dream and mine was he wanted to become some sort of Derrick Zoolander. He was the most striking construction of chiseled features and remarkable physique that God ever created. But the dumbest shit came out of his mouth— casting calls, models he’d dated, auditions. He even borrowed lunch money from me at the airport once, which was a complete turnoff, but totally worked for him. His facial grooming of choice was little more than a 5 o’clock shadow, but not yet a full beard. Just scruff. Perfect scruff. And man, oh man, did it do it for me - for

just one night in Puerto Rico. It was like his whiskers turned me into a giddy schoolgirl, willingly handing over her milk money, blushing in front of all her friends. That scruffy ignorance was his hustle. Get it, HotBeard.

Fat Beard

When we first met, you didn’t have facial hair. I fell in love with you immediately and stayed in love with you for a long time - even when it hurt, and even though you never loved me back. It was beautiful.beautiful.beautiful. But then you got pretty fat. And then after you got fat, you grew this thick bush on your face to somehow “complement” the weight gain. Once, at a hotdog stand, someone even called you Kenny Rogers. Oddly enough, you did look like a fat Kenny Rogers with that shit on your face. Still, the butterflies in my stomach remained unfazed every time you entered a room, bought me a drink, or romantically asked if I wanted to see your dick. I didn’t care, I still loved Kenny Rogers. But now that everything’s said and done, I can safely confess that I just didn’t get the chunky-ass Jesus Christ look you were going for. Kind of fat is OK. Bad beard is OK. The Messiah is always cool. But fat with a bad beard is never a winning combination. The

Black Beard

Alright, so he wasn’t really black, he was Dominican. I just couldn’t really tell at first. And he had lots of money that he showed off profusely. Had he not possessed this unfortunate quality, I might have been able to disregard the teensy tiny line of black hair that outlined his face like an eyeliner mishap. But that kind of redemption is reserved for people who deserve it, and he didn’t. When he shaved it off, he was really attractive. It made me notice his muscles more than the unsightly distraction framing his jaw. What are dudes thinking when they style themselves in this manner? Despite the fact that being hairy is masculine, this sort of presentation comes off as kind of feminine. It’s just not a good look unless you’re one of those homothugs. You know the type: gay and ghetto at the same time. Lots of times, they’re ex-ravers or B-boys and always in community college (or an equally Chlamydia-ridden state school). Like I said, this look works for them. And nobody else, BlackBeard.

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bap by juan j. vasquez

I just finished a long distance call to my mother. A 73-minute call that will make a small, inopportune appearance on my itemized phone bill, but then take a big toll on my monthly minute plan. The conversation started with my reassurance that “all was great,” then moved to updates on family and home-town news. I drug it out with questions like, “What are you doing mom?” There are the long and awkward voids of silence. I try and maintain composure even as I realize my pathetic dependence on family. She kindly offers an, “Are you OK, son?” every chance she gets. We both realize I must hang up. I wallow in my self-pity. I am engulfed by the walls of this Section 8 apartment in the big city away from it all. The dark walls tower over me. My predictably stylish Target furniture stands frail and bruised from past moves. Faint rays of sunlight creep past the bars of the blinds into the apartment, making the dingy carpet more suspicious than ever. And in the middle of this perceived despair is me. I am alone. But one thought is my salvation, my Texas Blonde. With an offended tone in her voice and disdain at my request, she acts as if she’s not coming. I cheerfully play along. I know she will come, she always cums with me. This is her little ritual, totally meaningless, but an obligatory one she must perform not only on me, but I’m sure on countless others. It’s a thin and very ambiguous line that separates her from being either “fun, free and young” or just a plain ol’ slut. This line, which she consciously bends and blurs to appease her guilt, she will never cross. As she walks through my door, she bends her knees, puts her hands on her waist and

ism twists herself, causing her golden-blonde hair to slowly sway in the air while giving me the perfect good-ol’ Texas smile. During causal and meaningless catch-up chit chat, we commit to our lungs the ghostly smoke of a thick and perfectly rolled blunt I had prepared in anticipation of the morning. We undress and writhe on the carpet. When we finish, we change into swimming gear and thongs. We make our bulky ascent to the club house carrying our towels, sunglasses, pack of Camels, sun block, sun tan lotion, and two beer-filled, big-gulp size cups, bearing the name and cute leopard logo of an elementary school (my boss, the school’s principal, gave me these as gifts for coming to this city to teach). Although the clubhouse could have

(ILLUSTRATION: JAVIER VALADEZ)

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not been more than forty steps away, the combination of the midday sun, the beer and anticipation to smoke more pot make the walk seem like a 40 day journey through the desert.

“She says ‘C’mere you’ and plants a big, wet, chlorine and beer flavored, cigarette smoke filled kiss on my lips.’” At the pool, we work our way through clusters of loud, erratic Mexican kids and their young mothers. Everything stops as we walk in. The women stare at my Texas Blonde. They see her corn-colored hair glowing in the sun. They see her creamy white skin under her tiny black bikini. Of course, they begin to give her low and

concealed looks of indignant disapproval. My Texas Blonde walks on, unbeknownst and unscathed. I lift my head in pride at my Texas Blonde. The kids resume their cannonballs, splashing their mothers. We set down our things at the Jacuzzi, next to the pool. I take a big sip of my beer and make my way into the water. I feel the coolness of my first dip, and the relaxation crawls itself into my body. She follows, cigarette lit on her red lips, beer in her hand. I rest my head and float on my back. I can hear the slapping of little effervescent chlorine waves on my ears. My muscles start to untangle and I feel warm and numb. The million thoughts and emotions I felt earlier start to subside. The pot, beer and cheap company are starting to have their desired effect. I feel good again, but there is a price to pay for comfort. The warmness in my body becomes intense. Suddenly and decisively, I get the urge to pee. I try and suppress it. I try and ignore it. I try counting, but it’s useless. Facing the grave possibility that I might have to take a long walk alone to the apartment, I take it upon myself to resolve the matter. I flap my arms slowly like a big clumsy yellow bird and float my way to the opposite side. Here, in this un-shaded and cold region of the Jacuzzi, I begin to loosen my hips and gluts. Urine bursts from my bladder and gushes away from me like an overflowing river, down my urethra and exits my body. I quiver and shake in relief as the water around slowly warms. I start floating back with one arm over my eyes, protecting my pupils from the sun. Suddenly, I feel a hand on the back of my neck that pulls me up. Drops of water run away from the epicenter of my face and take cover behind my shoulders. It’s my Texas Blonde. She says “C’mere you” and plants a big, wet, chlorine- and beerflavored, cigarette smoke-filled kiss on my lips. I take my arms off my eyes and I finally see the light. I realize there’s a better place than this. I drip out of the Jacuzzi, leaving her there as I trek through the desert and head home.

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MY AMERICAN

HER by The Merry Prankster I remember the look in his eyes, dizzy and flushed, as I lifted up my shirt to reveal I was wearing my big breasted cousin’s bra. That’s when I felt the warmth of his fist - knuckles moist with sweat - meet my face in a slippery collision of bone and blackheads. The fact he knew - that I knew he enjoyed masturbating while smelling panties he stole from the boy’s locker room - meant nothing in this moment. Wearing that bra created a gap between us that could never be filled. It was out in the open. I was a freak. While he committed his sins in private, I had crossed the line and bared my dirty laundry in public. We weren’t punks or head bangers. After the jocks beat our asses, those groups would pick up sloppy seconds. We didn’t 17

have a group of friends. No one bummed us cigarettes or let us watch while they fucked their girlfriends. Even the freshman headbangers got to do that. That’s how pathetic we were. But at least we could make fun of each other together. Now I had lost that. All because I wanted to make a statement, even though my stammering, stuttering speech made it impossible to put into words what I was trying to say as a fucked up psycho-sexual teenage misanthrope. The week before, my friend had given me a mix CD with Marilyn Manson tunes. Before that, I had put off listening to Manson because I was just as afraid of not being worthy of listening to the patriarch of misery as I was of going to hell Being raised in the Bible Belt South by parents who taught me Christian ethics in the form of de-

ranged puppet shows and borderline-cultish television programs made me terrified of the freedom Manson advertised. After I was given the mix, I went home, for some reason took off all my clothes, put on my mother’s lip stick, and with trembling hands inserted the tape into my cassette player. The noise and rage that came out of the speakers fucked my ears silly, and oddly enough, gave me a massive erection. It’s weird, but I didn’t even like his voice or the musical composition. This was a time when my dumbass was listening to the raprock stylings of Korn and Limp Bizkit. I had no idea what good music was, but something about Manson’s songs gave me hope, empathy, and most of all, power. The mix comprised songs from Antichrist Superstar and Mechanical Animals. As I banged my head up and down mindlessly, I


(ILLUSTRATION: MASON LaHUE)

looked down and found myself furiously masturbating. Why? I had no fucking idea. Still don’t. Manson once said that he

preservationist attitudes reflect the ethos of the early American revolutionist thinkers. Don’t leave the fate of your own personal freedom and identity

That’s the beauty of Marilyn Manson. His newer stuff hasn’t affected me as much as his older stuff, partially because those records reflected a very specific

“I went home, for some reason took off all my clothes, put on my mother’s lip stick and with trembling hands, inserted the tape into my cassette player.” felt like he picked up where Elvis left off. The controversy that began with the on-stage hip shake was continued with the onstage face fuck. Is it fucked up that when I think of America the three images that first come to mind are Britney Spears’ vagina and Marilyn Manson’s eloquent appearance in “Bowling for Columbine?” To me, he is the quintessential American artist. His anti-establishment and self-

to religion or politics: take a stand, think for yourself and become a catalyst for change. The right-wing evangelical zeitgeist makes him out to be the villain, and why not? Even he’s admitted that his records and public persona make him an easy target. But the rotting corpses that our leaders hide in their closets, Manson wears as ascots on stage - in the open for all to see.

time and place for me. And I wouldn’t even rank him in my top 100 bands, 200 maybe. But this guy, who moments before was my best friend, knocks me to the ground because he’s afraid he might be a fucked up as me, and all I can do is look up from the gravel with blood crusted eyes, spit out a tooth, and just smile. And for that, I have Marilyn Manson to thank. My American hero.

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HIP HOP The New Punk by The Merry Prankster I have a dream. Actually, it’s more of a hallucination from puffing on this blunt. I see the best minds of this generation going mad over beats and breaks, rapping less about cars and money and more about burning money and cars. As the Joker so eloquently put it, “It’s not about money. It’s about sending a message. Everything burns.” With the lowest period of hip-hop behind us, the headstone reading Ring Tone Rap is finally erected over a grave filled with gangsta romanticism, mainstream menstruation and the illiterate inbred spawn of pop and rap. It was enough to make a dude go crazy. Having too…..

My bad, I had to vomit up some Life Cereal and Modelo. Where was I? Right. So, once the purple haze fades away and my scleras turn white again, it’s summer of 2012 and shit 19

ain’t a dream no more, it’s real. This is collectively the greatest period of hip-hop in terms of progression and advancement of the music. We have top-tier talents hailing from multiple corners of the nation with diverse backgrounds and lyrical content. One thing unites them all: they’re all really, really fucking good. From the anarchic street gang of OFWGKTA, or the performance art punk of Death Grips, to the spoken word stream of conscious styling’s of gender bender Lil B, shit is more fucked up than ever, and that couldn’t be more of a good thing. It seems the conventional tropes that have kept hip-hop confined to a casket-shaped box have finally been broken loose, and it couldn’t have come at a better time. With the Internet, we get to see Tyler the Creator fucking around with his buddies, Lil B speaking at NYU, or Action Bronson serving it up in the kitchen. Rappers can get shine and interact with fans like never before. Of course, there’s a down side all this Internet shit, too. Like getting distracted from new music cause that new Montana Fishburn sex tape just hit the net. Morpheus’ daughter getting it in! Hip-hop has gone from a

milieu dependent upon sacred traditions to a genre where nothing is sacred and everything is cut short, broke down and rolled up. One thing specifically separates this generation of lyricists from the old heads of the past and it’s glaring enough to ask, “Where’s the beef?”

“THIS IS, COLLECTIVELY, THE GREATEST PERIOD OF HIP HOP IN TERMS OF PROGRESSION AND ADVANCEMENT IN THE MUSIC .” Cats just ain’t scrapping like they used to. Art has finally taken over artifice. This group just wants to smoke blunts, fuck and paint a refrigerator with their rhymes. In fact, mainstream is filling that void with Lil Wayne, Drake, Ms. Minaj and Kanye sparring separately over stupid shit and popping up on Media Takeout rumor mills. Most of today’s rappers seem to genuinely like one another and pop up in each other’s songs and


collaborate on large multiartist tracks. One of the best is The Last Huzzah, featuring Das Racist, Danny Brown, El-P, Despot and The Muthafuckin eXquire. Everyone raps with gusto, one-upping one another, but with a Rosencrantz and Guildenstern give and take. Hip-hop fans have finally advanced past bigotry bullshit to embrace queer rappers like Li1f, whose Dark York mixtape rivals Lil B’s recent Choices and Flowers, as the most progressive and experimental work in not just this year, but this decade. With a surplus Slurpee of talent, there’s a rapper every social group can relate to. But the question looms, who’s the best? Kendrick Lamar has the flow that goes through your ears and over your head the fastest. El-P writes rhymes that sound like Cormac McCarthy’s drunk sexts. Shabazz Palaces and Childish Gambino have created new identities out of old ones, starting a whole new dialogue on post-structuralist performers who reinvent themselves, and by doing so, reject the standard role of rapper as a one-note author. So, who takes home the crown as top lyricist? Honestly, the competition comes down to two. Earl Sweatshirt and Danny Brown. Odd Future wordsmith Earl Sweatshirt mixes the leftfield leanings of MF Doom with the cocky swagger of a kid straight out of juvie. When his moms moved him

away from the OFWGKTA crew, they rallied behind the “Free Earl” slogan in nearly every song. When he returned, he ripped the game a new asshole. The big-lipped lyricist has consistently out-rapped everyone in his crew, including leader Tyler, the Creator, most notably on the track “Oldie,” where Tyler was given two verses to Earl’s one. However, Danny Brown is by far the most unconventional rapper the hip-hop world has ever seen. He looks like a black Gummo, and between binge-filled bars, he executes some of the most brilliant rhymes in the history of rap. Brown gets the edge over Sweatshirt because of his ability to be featured on any top rapper’s song and completely blitz everyone on the track. It doesn’t matter how many pills he’s taken or how much weed and coke he’s done. Brown is a better rapper zonked than half the field is sober. The fact that he exhibits such a fatalist persona brings to mind 2Pac, who demonstrated similar traits while changing the landscape of the rap game with his infusion of selfaware critiquing and poetic abilities. His album XXX can certainly compete as the greatest mixtape ever and could easily be placed in the top 20 hip-hop albums of all time. And in a highly accomplished rookie year, there’s a feeling that the best is yet to come. To sum up Danny Browns place at the top…

Sorry, had to take a shit. To sum up Danny Browns place at the top, here’s proof straight from him, from the coda of his “Greatest Rapper Ever” song. ”Started reading once the judge threw the fucking book But the block was off the hook, said fuck class Off them same pills that had Carlton dancing fast Young buck, look, now a grown up Now I pop those same pills, listening to Donuts I rap like I bet my life cause in all actuality, nigga I did You rap like you used to hit the pipe Nah nigga that ain’t crack, thats crack head shit Rep that shit, will tell a bitch You wouldn’t break a brick, you ain’t seeing this dick You trick on the bitch, dog you ain’t rich Take a bitch to the movies, take her to the crib You seeing Brown? Nope, never ‘bout to live the title of the greatest rapper ever.”

(ILLUSTRATIONS: MASON LaHUE)

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(ILLUSTRATION: TREVOR SHIN)


Hank Williams by Ronald Meeks Hank Williams, even during his drug and alcohol flame out, was honest about who he was— a drunk, an unreliable performer, terrible with women, a dark soul, tormented by his emotions. But oddly enough, his rise to fame stands as a direct contrast to today’s cultural icons — people who offer their sack to be grabbed for success and then let those sweaty hands drag them down to new lows. Nevermind today’s celebs who battle weight issues and dalliances with divorce, he had real shit to deal with. He lost his early band to WWII drafts. People were broke. Had spina bifida(I don’t care. Look it up). Addicted to painkillers. It took him years to get known. And while he was, he hit the bottle. Hard. It was no secret that he frequently drank, blew money and was known for habitual drunkenness. He tried to toe the line with being a God-fearing man but was obviously full of demons. He’s become a role model of sorts for today’s pop star rejects, well the ones that think they know who he was. Post burnout, we sit 70 years later in a constant circle jerk of every 15-second-famers getting big heads and then parading around town with their pants down. They, and we, think their fame and life is harder now because they’ve become known — it didn’t have to be. Being an entertainer is a cruel siren that people lose their soul to, causing them to flip back and forth, trying to muster whatever is left of themselves. And he knew that. But we love it. The saturation of smutty reality TV, now archaic by our attention span, like The Real World, have become our century’s Hamlet. We gobble it up, giving into poor choices and in-the-moment debauchery. Williams — not by choice, but by circumstance — was exactly what we crave now, because it’s what we’ve been fed to believe: live destructive lives and supernova before we turn 30. Yolo. His cannon dealt with internal pain and torture, a wounded storyteller who self medicated and hid behind cheeky titles and a bright steel guitar. His spoken lyrics howl and pierce, but what would today’s generation of thumbsuckers find so glamorous about a life where the only thing that’s positive is your HIV test? As Americans, we only have a few things that unify us, but nothing like the thrill that comes from entertainers living shittier lives than us. Williams chased the beast because he was a true man in love with music, and he fell because it’s a shitty life to lead — an alcoholic who was unapologetic for actions he had no control over.

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Booty Talk

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Toys, Texts and Titties . . .

Fifty Shades of Grey has become very popular. How should I introduce toys and spankings into my sex life without coming off as a sex addict/whore? – Ms. Steele

Harleen: Ms. Steele, that’s what sex is all about. If you want nipple clamps and a pink ass, the key to not coming off as a sex addict/whore is all about asking right. That is, unless you are a sex addict/whore (no judgments here.) For most, spanking comes naturally during sex, especially when he’s waxing that ass from behind. A good tip is to tell him to spank you between your moans. He probably wants to anyway. Talk about it, and if I’m right, give him the flashing green light. If you’re too shy, maybe put his hands on your ass when you’re riding him, to give him the idea.

Jack: Toys are a little bit more delicate to introduce, so don’t pull them out while he’s inside you and think shit is all good, cause homeboy might freak. Instead, make the suggestion before sex and explain how it adds extra stimulation. Offer to buy them together, so he knows you’re not bringing out a 10-foot purple dildo.

My boyfriend constantly meets other women and never mentions that he’s in a relationship. Sometimes he even sees them on more than one occasion. How do I let him know it bothers me? – Hot and Bothered

J: Listen, Hot and Bothered, not all committed men with female friends have a separate agenda. The fact that you know about these other women means he isn’t hiding them from you. He probably wouldn’t be talking to you about this chick if he was fucking her brains out while you’re at work. Maybe the conversation hasn’t presented itself where he tells her about you. It’s ridiculous to want him to blurt out his relationship status like he’s a walking Facebook profile. If they get to be friends, they’ll probably add each other on Facebook, where it will be spelled out. That is unless you aren’t “in a relationship” online, which is pretty rare.

H: If you really are feeling that insecure, just ask him why he doesn’t offer that tidbit up to women he meets. You’re sure to get an answer. Whether you like it is a different story.

My ex-girlfriend’s roommate invited me to her home in Miami for a week. We’ve messed around before, but I don’t know if she wants to continue this time around. Should I take her up on the offer? – Jiggy in Miami 23


H: Absofuckinglutely you take her up on the offer! Only reason on Earth to say no (and probably the reason you bothered to ask) is if your ex means anything to you. If she does, steer clear of the roommate and put your “messing around” behind you. No sane woman is gonna take back a man that spent a week fucking her roommate. Just imagine your ex fucking your roommate for a week, would you still want her? Didn’t think so. So let it rest, and go win over your ex instead.

J:Oh, Jiggy in Miami, is this a real question? Seriously though, if she’s joined your list of “has-beens” and/or she was a cunt bitch to you, then you smash the roommate and take pixxxs. All lights are green. There’s no doubt she wants to knock boots in Miami. Don’t be a pussy. However, boning on the beach isn’t as cool as it sounds. Sand is not your friend.

What’s the best approach to sexting? I want to see some tits! – 2 Chainz

J: Titties are a glorious sight to behold, aren’t they 2 Chainz? From experience, I’ve learned that women understand that and usually aren’t too shy to show them off. As long as your approach doesn’t make them feel like a whore, they’re usually open to acting like whores. My advice is that you steer the conversation into a more sexual direction. Once you have her attention and she’s talking about how she loved how your balls were bouncing off her clit during your doggy-style session, try the, “Can I have a pic to save in my phone?” method. Based on your sudden change of topic, she’ll usually understand what you’re asking...without asking...and gladly send a risqué photo. This is how she’ll feel you out. Or just say “send me a pic.” If she really likes your balls on her clit, she’ll send a lil something more. Your boldness will determine how much further you go from there. If that doesn’t work, send a pic of your dick. That means business.

How can I tell my man what to do in bed without making him feel like less of a man? He can be very emotional, he likes to be in charge -- you know how guys are.. – Silently Taking Charge

H: Yeah, some men hate feeling inferior to women, especially in the bedroom, so that is a slight dilemma, Silently Taking Charge. Because you’re still with him, I’m guessing your man wants to make you happy in the bedroom. Let him know what you enjoy, or turn it into a suggestion that you want to try. Maybe lie and say your friend told you about it or that you read it in THRWD. Or be bold and tell him what you want while you’re having sex. Some men love a woman who knows what she wants in the bedroom. It’s hot. And if he does it and does it well, feed his ego. He’ll feel like more of a man. Trust, we ladies know how the male ego works. Sometimes you gotta massage it.

Have a question? E-mail us at JackandHarleen@gmail.com 24


to

(LEFT TO RIGHT: BUFFALO BLACK, JT DONALDSON)

Every issue we will bring together two musical artists of different backgrounds and genres to sit down and talk about the Dallas music scene. We’re talking the good, the bad and the ugly. This issue features Cedar Social resident DJ, J.T. Donaldson, and local hip-hop artist, Buffalo Black. The two sat down to discuss their favorite local acts, what their home towns means to them and why solidarity among artists is sorely lacking in the Big D. After warming up on some drank (whisky), the conversation soon flowed. by The Merry Prankster JT: Tell me man, what’s your musical background? BB: Indeed. Well I started as a writer first. I used to do poetry. Then I transi25

tioned into rap. It started out as rapping, then into singing, producing. It’s really caught on with me, it’s a passion. JT: What type of stuff are you working on right now? BB: Right now I have a new project coming out called Buffalo Black, to kick off the rebranding of myself. Before people knew me as Jmil Kly. Now everything is transiting into a different phase to catch people’s ear and eye. BB: What about you, tell me about your journey. JT: Well I’m a DJ and producer, Dallas native. I spent a lot of time going out as a youngster. I worked at Bill’s Records for seven years. I would wonder how music would get from the studio to the vinyl. That was the beginning of my journey on trying to figure out how

to get my record made. My start was record stores, working at them through high school and wanting to make my own record. Other than that, I moved away in 98 and lived in Chicago for a few years. Did L A. for four years… BB: Chicago? JT: When I was coming up I was listening to house music. We were going out to clubs; we were going out to raves. It was all the House shit. A lot of that was from Chicago. A lot of the music that trickled down to Dallas was from Chicago. The stuff I gravitated to was from Chicago. I met a bunch of DJs from Chicago and I moved out there for my production career, trying to make records basically. It was almost like a hobby back then, rather than a career. It was just something


fun to do. There were a lot more outlets back then than there are now. That’s something I wanted to talk to you about being a new artist. I know you got a record out already, but how do you find outlets for your records? BB: It’s a digital world out there, everything’s interconnected. Information is practically everywhere. If you’re any kind of artist, you have to stay in synch with current anything. It’s really hard if you’re an artist, or a DJ, you have to sit in the studio all day and balance that with work and school, so on and so forth. It’s really like a job. JT: Oh yea, you always gotta see it as such. BB: Tell me about people in the Dallas music scene you really like. JT: Well you got people like Erykah Badu who, just the trickle-down effect from her shit is just ridiculous. From that you got my buddy Arnold who is DJ A1, a good friend of mine for many years. Sober 1, who I met through Arnold. Back to the Erykah Badu camp, people like Picnic and Jah Born. Running with those dudes and bumping elbows, those cats who are the staple and pushing the envelope in the city. BB: People like these guys really get swept under the rug sometimes. I noticed that you mentioned Picnic and Sober those are the guys primarily… JT: And AdD+ ! BB: and AdD+ of course. Those cats right there are really influential. I remem-

ber a few years ago, I used to pick up the Quick magazine and notice all the articles about AdD+, PPT and Picnic, that was back when I was in college, but that was really something for me to pick up on as influence. You got Topic and the Team From Nowhere Camp. JT: These are guys you’re running with in Dallas that are doing their own groups? BB: Well I’m not in a collective personally, but I don’t object to working with anyone, whatsoever. I support Team From Nowhere and everyone trying to put on for the city. In my book, everyone’s good. JT: Nice. That’s good to hear. I think that’s what we need in this city. People coming up like yourself are so important for the scene. When you’re not in the

studio, what do you like to do? BB: I don’t really go out all that much. I do love going to shows. Seeing local cats. JT: What was the last show you went to? BB: I went to a Poor Vida Promotion a few weeks ago for the Elements of Hip-Hop Showcase. I actually performed to get a spot on the showcase with some fellow artists like Alsace Carcionne - tremendous performers. JT: So not only did you go, but you performed, as well. If people wanna come see you where should they go? BB: A lot of my marketing has filtered online. I’ve really spent a lot of time trying to build up my online presence. That’s partly because of moderate difficulty with booking arrangements. I guess that’s because my sound, as has been labeled

Well I’m not in a collective per-

sonally, but I don’t object to working with anyone, whatsoever.... In my book everyone’s good.

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as such, doesn’t exactly have the market. But usually when I do play, I’m at the Green Elephant, 2826 Arnetic. I’ve had shows at the Prophet Bar, I’ve been at Hailey’s in Denton. To change topics, I don’t have an experience in this, but what is it like for a DJ during a set? What are the venues like? What are the responses? JT: Well, when I get booked out of town, I usually play house music. Which is funny, cause when I’m playing here at home I’m playing funk, disco, soul, all genres, it’s a real mixed bag. When I’m out of town, I’m playing larger venues, like underground parties. I get pretty experimental. BB: What it’s like playing in Chicago compared to Dallas? JT: To play out there is justification to what you’re doing. If you can get a set in Chicago,

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you’re on that platform, it’s time to prove why you’re there. To play in Chicago, it’s always a blessing to me. DJing out in Brooklyn was cool because the bars are open to 5, 6 a.m., which is great, because it’s an amazing opportunity to play for people who are ready to hear something different. That’s the East

“This is a DIY city without a doubt. If you don’t know how to do it yourself, you’re not going to fucking survive in this city.” Coast. That’s the battle I vibe with here. I can play shit here, and people don’t know it. It falls on deaf ears sometimes. I can play something new, try to sea-

son somebody, but it takes them a month to get it. I’m not trying to be an elitist by any means, but that’s the flow. The wave hits and it’s a ripple-down effect. By the time it hits from the East Coast to Dallas, it’s been six months. I feel like it’s a bit of a battle being home, after being in Brooklyn. But I feel like I’m in a position wherel I can help that, being back in this city. We got a lot of people who go out, I just don’t know if they’re exposed to the right shit. So tell me, how do you feel about that? BB: I feel like there’s a strong disconnect from various cultures in general, compared to the culture that’s already been nurtured here. I feel like the culture here isn’t very conducive to a sound like yours or mine. I’m really influenced by the East Coast cats, the Nas’ of the world, the MF Dooms. The scene as a whole here, I feel like

(PHOTOGRAPHY: BRIAN BUI)


the avenues for rappers such as myself, aren’t really as facilitated as homegrown mainstream cats. JT: Yeah, the avenues haven’t really been paved yet. I mean Eykah’s (Badu) done her thing, but who’s followed in her footsteps? Not that many people. But, at the same time, she has a whole crew of people who are doing dope shit. I feel like certain cities may have, “They’re so and so’s protégé.” You know what I mean? We don’t have that yet. We got amazing stars from here. Eykah Badu, Norah Jones. Who’s their protégé? I feel like it’s more of a trailblazing city. You have to blaze your own fucking trail. The same way Norah Jones did. What do you think about that? Are you ready to get the machete out and fucking like,

hack some shit? BB: Blaze a trail. Like get on the campaign trail like John McCain. JT: I feel like you have to. I got love for my city. Trust me this is my hometown. I would never talk shit, but at the same time you really have to do it yourself. This is a DIY city without a doubt. If you don’t know how to do it yourself, you’re not going to fucking survive in this city. There’s no path that’s been laid down. BB: I would say that’s the key for sure, man. We have the Internet now, computers and all this software. If you don’t apply yourself in some capacity, do the things you want to do in an artistic fashion, you don’t have any excuse. On the trailblazing tip, for me as a rapper, I don’t really

“This city [Dallas] has good shit happening.”

see very many trailblazers. For my perspective, the whole reason I started doing poetry as a whole, was because of cats like Q-Tip, cats like Rakim. And digging in Myspace Music pages. JT: Like Saul Williams? Cats like that? BB: Absolutely man. Because there wasn’t anybody to draw on. I drawed on cats like Brown from Sore Losers, back from a few years ago. I drawed on him because I was like ‘This cat’s doing it from the city, I know for sure I can definitely hold it down.’ JT: That’s always been a big thing for me, supporting people that are doing shit in the city. I’m glad to have met you. BB: Likewise. JT: This city has good shit happening. Beware, we’re not pessimistic, we’re just sensitive artists. Don’t get it twisted, Dallas does have good shit going on. I’m gonna drag your ass off with me and find some tonight. Let’s go get throwed.


FROM THE COVER

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30


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(PHOTOGRAPHY: SHAYNA FONTANA)


Blame Blair

No Sweat

by Blair Whatley Oh, the mystical summer. Schools are out, taxes are paid, days last longer and nights are more soothing. Between the warm days and drunken nights, options for provocative summer attire are endless. Music festivals are one of the best platforms to try new trends and show some skin. People travel at great lengths to partake in different festivities. It’s a place to form new friends, find new love and create new memories; all while killing brain cells. It’s hot as hell, and so are we. Summer

is a time of relaxation and carelessness. The only problem is that we live in Texas. If we relax too much, we’ll die of heat stroke, and if we care too little, we’ll suffer third degree sunburns. In Dallas, fashion has to function a little differently during these summer months. Pants are not an option. You start to resent your underwear. ‘Sleeves’ become an obscene idea. And you’ve probably even considered boycotting clothing all together. Seeing as this nation will not accept gay marriage, I doubt it can deal with a state filled with naked, over-heated, gun-yielding

people. Ergo, we must find a way to beat the heat yet preserve our reputation as the state with the most attractive citizens. There are many local concerts, festivals and outdoor activities in the next few months. Letting the weather dictate the majority of your summer plans is ridiculous. I know you ladies don’t wanna miss out, so here are the basics on what to wear to stay cool while still looking it. Sunscreen is an obvious. After you lather up, take advantage of summer as the only season where you can wear shorts hardly big-

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ger than your underwear and bikini tops as shirts. As women, we must take advantage of the upper hand we have on men during the summer. I suggest taking this fashion a different way. Instead of slapping two triangles around your nipples, try a bandeau bra. Try something other than a solid color. One of the best things about living in the modern age are the fabulous textile and graphic designers making uniquely beautiful prints to decorate your bosoms. Making a statement is

always key in drawing attention to yourself, yet away from your body temperature. Websites like blackmilkclothing.com and stores such as American Apparel carry a wide array of interesting, well-made supportive bandeaus that can hold almost any bust. One of my favorite summer looks this season is the simplicity of high-waisted shorts paired with a bandeau. Spice it up with some boots or sandals for a sleek and sexy style. Remember, shorts with high waists, not mom jeans. High-waisted shorts make your stomach look small and ass look fantastic. Mom-pants make you look short and possibly as if you are wearing a diaper. I’m done with this whole, low waist, short-shorts movement. When was

“High-waisted * shorts make your stomach look small and ass look fantastic.” the last time you thought about how uncomfortably hot your waist gets? By adding a bit of length at the top of your shorts, you’ll do wonders for your figure. I love shorts with serious hardware. I’m talking studded pockets, tiny chain-link belts, even embedded rhinestones. There are a lot of websites out there (such as studsandspikes.com) where you can order in bulk, an array of different studs and even spikes for about $30. Such an ensemble would be the perfect oufit to look sexy at Warped Tour this year.

* 34

(PHOTOGRAPHY: JUSTIN MOSHOLDER)


When at a festival, looking cute while keeping things aired out is important. This can be done by cutting up old t-shirts into sexy new threads. A well-cut T-shirt can give you an effortless sense of style. Pick up a few old band shirts at local pawn shops, your dad’s closet or online. If T-shirts aren’t your cup of tea, I suggest a racerback tank top. They’re pretty hot right now and the best ones have unique details like a faux zipper, or braiding down the middle strap. Chiffon blouses are also great during summer outings because they are very light weight and loose fitting. Shoes are a frequently over-

looked item at festivals. If you’re going to a concert at the arboretum, you’ll be sitting on grass; a perfect time to bust out gladiator sandals. However, if you’re going to Warped Tour or the Mayhem Tour, you’re going to be standing on cement for ten hours. Sandals aren’t very forgiving. I’m really digging the look of Doc Marten boots with shorts. Doc Martens are some of the most comfortable and durable shoes around. Plus, they come in all different colors and designs, making it easy to mix and match. You won’t have to deal with the danger of sinking your foot into someone’s vomit, piss or unknown standing liquid.

Let’s be honest. At the end of the day, you’re going to be a sweaty, hot mess. But with these tips, you’ll still look much better than anyone who didn’t heed my advice. Now, as long as you remembered to put your tray of cookie dough on the dashboard before you went in, you will be able to finish off the day with a nice treat.


FREEDOM by

Stephen Ketner I was told that I have to write 4 paragraphs for this magazine. I submitted two earlier entries, but they were insufficient. So here I am writing for a third time. The topic is freedom, but at this point I could give two turds what freedom is, because it’s hard to write an article about something I’m not personally able to express. Hmm... This concludes the first paragraph. One down, fucking sweet. Now I have to keep writing so you think I actually have something worth saying. I was always told in English class it’s very rude to address your audience directly in a piece of writing, because it’s already assumed you’re addressing them. I can’t say I disagree. But oh well, fuck it. Dear Readers, What are you doing later? Wanna meet up? Oh hey listen, I don’t have any money right now so if we do end up going out, can you buy me a drink and I’ll pay you back next week? Cool, thanks. We’re now over our limit, but fuck these guys. They can’t tell me anything about literature this Jameson on the Rocks can’t. In fact, Jameson was around long before they were even born--1780 according to the bottle--and I imagine will survive, long after they’re dead and gone. So they can go suck their mom’s nipples because whiskey is eternal and there is nothing a man can do when he stands up to the void of the infinite. Hold on I’m thinking. I was supposed to talk about freedom. Well, which freedom? I have so few. I have some freedoms, but the freedom to write what I want to about freedom apparently is not one of them. I remember when I was 9, and I saw a crowd full of nuns walking down the street, a rare occurrence in any Protestant’s life, I assure you. Even at nine-years-old, I distinctly recall wanting to stand up on a park bench and yell, “Penis! Don’t think of Penis! They go to Hell if they think of Penis!!!” at the top of my lungs, right in their smug little religious faces. I’m telling you all this because there’s no way I could’ve stood up and said that without worrying what other people would think of me. But why should I care what a crowd of obvious idiots think? This was a crowd full of women who gave up sex, so they could dress up like giant penguin wizards for the rest of their lives. Walking stoically down the street, in the middle of a Texas summer, feeling all high and mighty about what they’ve given up for God. So again, why should I, you, or anyone care if people think you’re a perverted little kid for yelling “Penis” at them? 36


My dad is a preacher you know, and in the small town where I grew up, I was taught freedom meant the freedom of religion. Basically, freedom is defined as the freedom to be a Bible salesman, or one of those angry looking nuns. Is that what our founders fought and died for? Bullshit! I imagine they fought and died for the right to do whatever they wanted, so long as they weren’t hurting others. As far as I know, my Atheism has never hurt my father’s Christianity. My getting drunk and smoking has never gotten him arrested (though it has me a couple times). My farts have never put shit in his underwear. So why does it matter if I’m a little perverse? Maybe I think you’re perverse. Whose standard are we using anyways? Yours, mine, God’s, society’s? What about your own standard? One wonders how so many disparate groups of people managed to cohabitate this continent without disbanding rapidly into warring factions. I guess in more ways than one, we have. We had our revolution, Civil War, Civil Rights battle, and women’s suffrage movement. Today, that battle rages on in State courts over reproductive and same-sex marriage rights. Yet the argument for resolution to these dividing conflicts is always the same fundamental concept, freedom. Freedom is the ridiculous glue that bonds the American experience into one unified whole. Like a first-grade collage, pieced together by the retarded kid in class out of birdshit and his boogers. As my mind ponders over the history of America (a very drunk mind at this point), I am reminded of my friends who come from all walks of life, of many races, of many religions, of many lifestyles (some of them more disgusting than others), and how each of us contributes something very unique (and equally pointless) to the grand masterpiece which is America. I imagine I’ll spend 4th of July, sitting in Fairpark, sweating my balls off, and think perhaps this event is worthy of its own mythos, like the Flag or the Liberty Bell. No one has ever really tried to explain what the fireworks themselves symbolize. So I will sit there, drunk mind you, and watch each firework as if it were its own individual entity, imagining that each spark symbolized a principle of the American civilization, or something stupid like that. I’ll watch as fireworks commemorate two-hundred and thirty-six years since this nation was devised by men, around the notion of individual freedom. I’ll imagine that each explosion is the necessary initial conflict, when two very different people bump into each other on the streets. I’ll imagine these are the voices of our fathers, fighting with one another over land, religion and basic human rights. I’ll imagine the smell of gunpowder that will fill the air, as a reminder of our history of war and chaos, from whence this nation was born. Then, finally, I won’t have to imagine anymore. I’ll see, hear and feel the eruption, the awe inspiring spectacle as the flames spread out across the sky in a veritable cornucopia of color--the full range and beauty of the American experience. Like a tiny million little orgasms. Happy America everybody!

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