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It’s a party in a zine.

July 2, 2010 \pm\31 12:33 pm

We’ve got ‘em folks. The exclusive excerpts from literary gadabout-music sieve (he’ll cockblock your Sleighbells purchase and you will thank him for it) Jason Diamond’s new zine (art by Nick Gazin yo!)

Do you know the history of the zine? Thomas Paine’s “Common Sense” was a zine. Benjamin Franklin had a zine for the mentally ill.

This particular zine is a dossier of the missteps, breaches and blunders of growing up within a musical context. So make like a riot grrrl, sample the goods below and then buy it for $3 here.

The time I saw Despair in New Brunswick

Ryan had vanished for a few months, but popped back up when he needed a ride to Philadelphia to meet a girl he’d met online.
Sheila drove most of the way, but I used my father’s gas card to make the journey happen. I didn’t feel like being the driver, so it felt like an even trade.
We drove through the Midwest and arrived in New Jersey — never noticing the difference.

Driving up to the venue, we didn’t see the sea of kids standing outside the venue that usually greeted you when you pulled up to a show — only a homeless guy passed out in the doorway.
“This can’t be good.,” Sheila said.
I got out of the car, stepped over the homeless guy who smelled like vomit, urine, shit, and gin.
I looked at the poster: Despair, You & I, Saetia, Zao, and eight others were scheduled to play January 5th; it was the 6th.

“Fuck,” I muttered silently. I tore the poster off the wall, and walked back to the car. Pushing the outdated poster against the window, the collection of faces in the Kia Sportage all gave me the same half constipated/half stuck-in-hell look.

We stayed at the Wishing Well Inn just outside New Brunswick. Ryan, Sheila, and I all shared a bed. We tried to sleep while the wind knocked against our window.
“Are you guys comfortable with me sleeping in my boxers?”
Sheila said no. I said nothing. Quiet was all the rage.
“Would it be crazy if we all had sex with each other?”
Sheila said yes. I said nothing.

A day later, we dropped Ryan off in Indiana. As soon as he was no longer visible, Sheila pointed out that Ryan hadn’t paid for anything during the entire trip.
I said nothing. This continued as Sheila and I drove home, the last two hours of our relationship.

So close to awesome.

Dear Rick Nielsen, this is what happened to the loser of the year

She had a tattoo over her belly that read “Pay to Come” in olde English and drank straight from a bottle of whiskey. I had no other options but an Amstel Light because the host had run out of beer.
I looked at her and thought about how I was the only person left who didn’t have any tattoos. I was wearing a Rush t-shirt from their 1987 tour. She asked me if I saw them in ’87.
“No,” I said, “I was six that year.”
She laughed, but I didn’t

I felt like a poser — sitting there drinking yuppie beer, tattooless, and wearing my faded prog rock glory for all to see. I got up, said nothing to the girl, and went home without saying goodbye to any of my friends.

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