It’s an election year and we’re offering a socialist alternative to bad and worse by changing the way Entasis comes to you. Rather than dropping a bible on your delicate toes four times a year, we’ll be updating our site twice a month: new fiction, new art, new photos, new poems. Our hope is that you’ll trust a comrade who taps you on the shoulder and says, ‘Check out this cool thing I found.’ The new approach will also have the fringe benefit of not overworking our designer into an early grave. For the first turn we have a wry, touching story from Scott David and series of exquisite poems by Joseph Spece
Yours in struggle,
Gavin McInnes, media clown and co-founder of Vice Magazine has produced a memoir that could have been good, if, to put it in the language of Vice, he gave a shit. HOW TO PISS IN PUBLIC: From Teenage Rebellion to the Hangover of Adulthood illustrates what was best about Vice, then exposes its complete failure.
Vice played a part in my Williamsburg. When the delivery trucks dropped a stack outside the Verb Cafe, they were gone in hours. The vulgar tone and heroin-slut fashion spreads offered an antidote to the polished magazines being manufactured across the river. Vice moved its offices to NYC from Montreal in 1999, and to Williamsburg a couple of years after that. I guess you could say that Vice represented the bawdy wing of emergent hipster culture. The editors weren’t hipsters themselves – they were older and came out of punk rock and the drug scenes. They showed hipsters no mercy, but then hipsters are always ready to laugh at themselves (after all, no one considers himself a hipster). The strength of the magazine was its irreverence – they wanted to offend, and liberal pieties offered a large and tender target.
McInnes describes his drug-powered journey from an Ottawa suburb to the fleshpots of New York City. Along the way, McInnes fronted punk bands, got stomped by skinheads, contracted STD’s and started the magazine that made him a wealthy man. Unlike most folks who party like rock stars, McInnes didn’t have to crash-land in a substance-abuse facility to reach his happy ending. Instead he throttled down the partying as he approached forty, married a woman with the unlikely name of ‘Blobs’ and started a family. It’s the American Dream come true, reality-TV style.
The most interesting section, by far, is the first third, which cover McInnes’ early days in Kanata and Ottawa. Like many smart, rebellious teenagers in the 1980s, McInnes found energy and an ethos in punk’s rejection of tradition and conformity. His descriptions of the social mishaps and destructive antics of his friends are entertaining, honest and occasionally touching. However, as he moves to NYC and up the social ladder, the writing becomes sloppier and the book degenerates into a series of anecdotes about how wasted he got and all the hot women he banged. McInnes doesn’t lack talent but he’s as self-indulgent on the page as he is in life. At one point McInnes mentions that he considered being a cartoonist but switched to writing because writing was easier; but it isn’t, which is why his memoir fails so completely. It’s much too easy.
Ad for a new condo complex called One Brooklyn Bridge Park, where 1-bedroom apartments are $1 million and 2-bedrooms are $1.5. The building stands inside Brooklyn Bridge Park, near Atlantic Avenue. Suddenly I don’t miss New York.
James would benefit from a severe ass whuppin’. I’m pretty sure the illustrator put one over on his bosses here.
Their website is equally astonishing.