Fiction: N.Y. State of Mind By Michael A. Gonzales (inspired by Nas)

Photo by Paul Price “The illest niggas in New York City live in Brooklyn,” my homeboy home LaRoc used to say, and in the summer of ’86, when we both dwelled in the hell that was the Brooklyn Arms Hotel, nothing could’ve been more true. More than two decades later, the building itself, which was…

HARDCORE NOIR by Eric Beetner

  When Paul debuted Punk Noir my immediate thought was of the night those two passions of mine collided. See, I was a hardcore kid. Punk rock was actually kind of weak in my mind at 15, even though my gateway drugs had been the Ramones and Sex Pistols like everyone else. But after I’d…

HOME ALONE BY PAUL D. BRAZILL

A guilty pleasure is an oxymoron, of course, since no true pleasure should make you feel guilty, but we all have enough skeletons in our closet to make a palaeontologist envious. And I’m rattling mine now. Make no bones about it – bones/skeletons, see what I did then?- the first two Home Alone films are…

Punk Lust @ Museum of Sex, NYC by Graham Wynd

The new exhibit at the Museum of Sex in NYC has a lot to offer. Anger may be an energy, but lust is too. This show crams a lot of it into a relatively small space. Everything from vintage posters and adverts to memorabilia shows the overlaps between punk, DIY zines, the burgeoning 70s porn…

PORTRAIT OF THE ARTIST AS A CONSUMER: ELIZABETH YOO

SONGS:   Come Fly With Me by Frank Sinatra Gangster of Love by Johnny Guitar Watson Machine Gun Kelly by Nancy Sinatra Rags To Riches by Tony Bennett Promised Land by Chuck Berry San Francisco Blues by Ramblin’ Jack Elliott Pull My Daisy by David Amram On the Sunny Side of the Street by Dizzy…

Poetry: Truman Capote’s brownstone by James Walton

Truman Capote’s brownstone Holly’s voice fingers digging between ribs the one-eyed cat’s zig zag troupe   the shower running   after the call up rooms full of old grey white men in avalanche interring country and western songs   a guitar taut as strung throats   no one’s Fred callow as a phone booth at…

Reflections/Iceberg Slim – Record review by Michael A. Gonzales

Living in Harlem in the early 1970s, my father’s apartment on 7th Avenue and 123rd Street was upstairs from an infamous Harlem bar known as The Shalimar. Glancing out of daddy’s fourth-floor window on a Friday or Saturday night, it wasn’t uncommon to see rows of brightly hued Cadillac’s lined-up from corner to corner with…

Fiction: One More Chance by Michael A. Gonzales

Everybody remembers the first time they had a gun pointed at them. Although it’s been months, sometimes I’ll be lying next to my woman and suddenly flashback to that black nine millimeter aimed at my skull. It was the summer of ‘88 and I was still living uptown where shattered glass crunched underfoot and the…