Issue 1

Justine Frischmann
Justine Frischmann

Avenue of the Americas

Jose Padua

I am not the Avenue of the Americas;
I have never been topless at Billy’s Topless –
no one in Manhattan ever called the Avenue of the Americas
the Avenue of the Americas we called it Sixth Avenue.


When I was living in Manhattan
the bar I went to most often on Sixth Avenue
was Billy’s Topless
but I hardly ever drank there because I hardly ever drank on the Avenue of the Americas.


I’d shop everywhere,
Midtown, Times Square,
but buying my drinks there felt wrong.

Steve Horowitz &
The Code International

Invasion From The Chicken Planet is a multi-media extravaganza featuring 10 musicians, 4 actors, 2 singers, narrator and a giagantic screen video projection system created by Zig Gron. The music was performed by The Code Ensemble and CalArts students, conducted by Devin Maxwell. The theatrical staging was directed by Alyson Schacherer. Narration by KPFK’s John Schneider. Lighting designed by Adam Frank and sound mix by Ryan Ainsworth

The People’s College

Drew Huebner

#1)I sell nickel bags

Pretty good weed sure

Comes in bricks from Mexico

Ive seen the whole operation

The trucks

The safe house up on Walton Ave

I was doing it before I met Juan Colon, y’know, the Mule’s brother. But Juan Colon changed the way I thought about it

You ever know someone who sees something in you that you had no idea was there

Something you did not even know existed in the world

That’s what Juan did

We went down to Manhattan to the city to party and goof around but we never went down there to sell drugs

Too much trouble

Coming Soon

Uranium City Return

Tim Beckett

At the end of the road, an airstrip appears, as unexpected as a landing pad for aliens. Instinctively, I look for the Eldorado Mine and the company town of Eldorado that stretched around the lake behind the airstrip and am startled to find nothing but hills and trees and a muddy black field. The plane lands and pulls to a stop on the edge of the tarmac. No one is there to greet us and we get out of the plane and wait. Behind the airstrip are the familiar hills – as rounded and smooth as hills on a golf course, and covered with pine, spruce and budding poplar – so familiar that I listen instinctively for the old rhythms and sounds. Though neither town nor mill were ever visible from the airstrip I can already sense the difference; knowing that I can cross these hills and see only more hills and more lakes makes the silence heavy and oppressive. For a moment it feels like we have shifted dimensions and landed in another time, the turn of the century say, and that the present and even my own past and the past of the town is still in the future and there is nothing here but the rocky hills, the stands of poplar and jack pine and spruce, the warm afternoon sun beating down on the tarmac.

The woman and the pilot unload her trays and boxes from the plane, handing things back and forth without many words as if they have been through this routine many times before. At first the woman hardly registers my presence then, when I help her with a few boxes, she opens up a little.

“So you like living in Uranium City?” I ask. Her judgment matters less now that I am actually here. She smiles with the slight trace of irony that I remember as a Northern trait and shrugs her shoulders.

“I don’t know. My mom’s here so I guess I like that.”

Eight Day Clock

Bob Bannister

Eight Day Clock came out on the Twisted Village label in 1992 to about as much acclaim as a record in an edition of 500 copies can get – various people said various complimentary things, but the following from Ben Chasny of Six Organs of Admittance, in an interview with PopMatters, is about the highest praise that could be summoned.

bart plantenga

I don’t care what others say, Jude was obviously overdoing it in front of me, the way she snuggled, rubbed noses with her neighbor’s dog in her best Betty Boop voice. Should have seen her stroke its hind leg the way she used to stroke a sweaty beer bottle – all promise, suggestion, and mirage. She’d somehow coax strange yipping yodels from the dog’s maw as if they were rehearsing a duet for late-night TV. As if to say, this dog could be you – or me. I mean, she didn’t even like dogs because they compete for attention. Sure, they liked her for how mossy her crotch smelled. Who wouldn’t?!

But the sad truth is that people over 30 can no longer say what they mean. Mean what is said. Believe what is said and so respond with secondhand notions they have never embraced. Jude thrived on the dramas that unfold in the shady areas of human encounter. Insinuation, a copped feel under a table, a quip, a barb, a rumor about my past. It was all a jumpstart to a sad heart, a way of gathering attention from strangers around the melodrama of her own life.