japanese baseball, march 2010

This is Japanese Baseball for March 2010.

www.japanesebaseball.us

KellsDutchGuatemalaFriday Night LightsSome YiddishDepardieuStates&Publishing

Japanese Baseball

Japanese Baseball is a general interest zine founded in 2010.

This in itself means a variety of things (some known, some unknown), all of which will hopefully become more apparent as time passes. In the meantime, some sources of influence can be found at: japanesebaseball.us/tagged/influence

Founded by Michael [email protected]/japbaseballBecome a fan on Facebook, too.

MADE IN AUSTIN, TEXAS, AMERICA

Born in El Paso, TX in 1982, Carlos has been listening to pop R&B for

over 28 years. [email protected]

Mimi Zeiger founded loud paper, an architecture zine and now blog,

in 1997. A Brooklyn-based freelance writer, she is obsessed with finding the

perfect cup of [email protected]

Matt Sorrell had his bike stolen recently. Let him know if you see it.

It's mostly [email protected]

Jack is musician, writer, food enthusiast, and entrepreneur. He lives

in Los Angeles with his appetite. [email protected]

Ben Kammerle should be settling back in New York and reclaim a career

in the music business but has chosen to continuing traveling instead.

He is currently seeking out unique cultures and interesting

experiences in Central [email protected]

Ricky Federico is a graduate of Northeastern University. He

commutes between his home in Chicago and Dillon, [email protected]

Keith Poulson was raised in the Catholic Church so now he can't

order off Chili's Guiltless Grill Menu. He lives in New York City. You

can email him but, fair warning, he'll probably report it as spam.

[email protected]

Timothy Willis Sanders (b.1980) is a writer in Austin, TX. His work

has appeared in Nano Fiction. He is currently an editorial assistant and

blogger at American Short [email protected]

Jacob Raphael Mazin was the proprietor of Mazin & Co. Ltd., in London. He is presumed to be very

deceased.

February 2010

There’s no such thing as fact anymore, only opinion. The closest thing we have

to fact is “common opinion”. Everything is an opinion.

KANyE WESTkanyewest.com/2010/03/02/

That's not the way the world really works anymore. We're an empire now,

and when we act, we create our own reality. And while you're studying that

reality—judiciously, as you will—we'll act again, creating other new realities,

which you can study too, and that's how things will sort out.

AIDE TO PRESIDENT BUSHoctoBeR 2004

Japanese Baseball

japanesebaseball.us/444112936

You Have A Crush On Kellsby Timothy Willis Sanders

Illustration by Carlos Rosales-Silva

February 2010

“I like watching you Tootsee Roll,” said Adina Howard, “Take me to that Kevin Bacon movie.” She handed R. Kelly a folded napkin.

Later, R. Kelly got on the highway with Michael Bivins. R. Kelly unfolded the napkin on the steering wheel.

“Digits. Kevin Bacon movie,” said R. Kelly.“Big ass chi-chis. Go for it,” said Michael

Bivins.“Hate Kevin Bacon though,” said R. Kelly.

“Don’t know...she was with DMX. I think he’s in jail.”

“Why?” “I don’t know. Maybe you have to watch out

for girls who make those kinds of choices.” “No. Why is he in jail?”“They found a gun in his car or something.”“When does he get out?” said Michael

Bivins.“I don’t know. I don’t really know him,” said

R. Kelly.“Probably be a while,” said Michael Bivins,

“Big ass chi-chis.” Michael Bivins spread his hands over his chest. R. Kelly laughed. They exited the highway.

R. Kelly sat in the box office. He saw the

Mall Security Guard. R. Kelly flagged down the Mall Security Guard. The Mall Security Guard waddled over. R. Kelly thought, “You’re like 800 pounds. Your face...” He looked at the things on the Mall Security Guard’s face.

“How long does someone go to jail for if he’s caught with a gun?” said R. Kelly.

“Depends if the gun was stolen, or used in a murder,” said the Mall Security Guard. R. Kelly looked away. He thought, “Giant chi-chis.”

Aaliyah walked to the box office. R. Kelly met

her at the glass.“Two for Titanic, 7:30 show,” said Aaliyah.R. Kelly looked at Aaliyah’s body. Aaliyah

wore slacks and a low cut top. He looked at her Banana Republic name tag.

“7:30. Are you bringing your boyfriend?” said R. Kelly.

“No. My girlfriend Missy. I like boats. She has a crush on Leonardo.”

“And you have a crush on Kells.” R. Kelly smiled and pointed to his name-tag. The name-tag read KELLZ.

“No,” said Aaliyah. She took her tickets and walked away. R. Kelly watched her walk away. He thought, “Kevin Bacon movie. Used in a murder.”

R. Kelly swept behind the popcorn machine.

Teddy Riley stacked popcorn buckets.“I like Aaliyah,” said R. Kelly. “She works at

Banana Republic, dresses nice, watches movies like Titanic...not the Kevin Bacon shit I’m seeing Friday night.”

Teddy Riley sighed a little. He walked to the store room without looking at R. Kelly.

“And she likes boats,” said R. Kelly. “Boats?” said Teddy Riley from the store

room.“Yeah, boats.”“Wrong movie to see if she likes boats.” “Yeah. Who says that though? I like boats.”“Didn’t she go out with Keith Sweat?” “Did she?”Teddy Riley walked out of the store room.

He had five bags of Twizzlers. He said, “I don’t know...” in a low voice. R. Kelly swept some popcorn kernels into a pile. He swept the pile into a dustpan.

Friday night. R. Kelly picked Adina Howard

up at 8:30. She wore a pink top and tall black heels. Children stood at the movie theater entrance. They pointed at Adina Howard’s chest and laughed. R. Kelly thought, “Giant chi-chis.”

R. Kelly looked at Kevin Bacon. He thought, “Jesus. I hate Kevin Bacon.” Adina Howard put her tongue into R. Kelly’s mouth. He put his hand on Adina Howard’s breast. He thought, “Feels empty.” Adina Howard pushed her tongue further into R. Kelly’s mouth. He thought, “I am going to choke. I am going to die during a Kevin Bacon movie.”

R. Kelly got in the car. He rubbed his jaw. His jaw was sore from kissing Adina Howard. He parked near Adina Howard’s apartment. Adina Howard looked at R. Kelly. She looked at the ignition.

“Do you want to come in?” said Adina Howard.

“No,” said R. Kelly. He thought, “Aaliyah.”“Not even for a little bit?” said Adina

Howard.R. Kelly drove home. He thought, “ Banana

Republic.” He will talk to Keith Sweat tomorrow.

¶R. Kelly did the Tootsee Roll. Adina Howard watched R.Kelly. R. Kelly dipped and looked at Adina Howard. Adina Howard walked to R. Kelly.

Japanese Baseball

“Uptown Girl” by Billy Joel came on the radio. R. Kelly turned the volume knob right. He rubbed his jaw.

R. Kelly saw Keith Sweat outside Foot Locker. Keith Sweat was holding a job application.

“15% discount, if I get it,” said Keith Sweat.“Tight,” said R. Kelly.Keith Sweat and R. Kelly slapped hands.

They walked to the food court. R. Kelly looked at the Starter logo on Keith Sweat’s Green Bay pullover. He thought, “Tight.” They got 8-piece nugget meals from Chik-Fil-A. Keith Sweat got Polynesian sauce. R. Kelly got Honey Mustard.

“What’s up with Aaliyah?” said R. Kelly.“She’s cool. I don’t know.”“Don’t know what?”“She’s alright. I kissed her once in the

Hallmark Store.”Keith Sweat looked around. R. Kelly put a

waffle fry in his mouth. He thought, “They just kissed. That’s all.” Keith Sweat took out the job application.

“You got a pen?”“No,” said R. Kelly, “good luck.”R. Kelly made a peace sign. Keith Sweat

nodded. R Kelly threw away his Chick-Fil-A bag.

R. Kelly sat in the box office. He watched

Aaliyah walk by. She looked at him. R. Kelly smiled. She kept walking. R. Kelly pulled out a spiral notebook. The spiral notebook had “Lyfe Journal” drawn on the cover in graffiti letters. He thought, “Aaliyah.”

He wrote two lines:You remind me of my jeepI want to ride it R. Kelly thought, “A jeep is a good metaphor

for Aaliyah. I should write this on a card from the Hallmark Store and send it to Banana Republic.”

R. Kelly imagined Aaliyah reading the card. He imagined being on a boat with Aaliyah. The phone rang.

“Heritage Plaza 3, this is Kells,” said R. Kelly. He looked at the two lines.

"Kells?""Yeah.""R. Kelly?""Yes?""It’s dark and hell is hot.""I’m sorry?""You will be motherfucker."R. Kelly hung up. He looked at the phone

lines. Line 1 was red. R. Kelly pressed Line 1. Line 1 went clear. Line 2 blinked red. The phone

rang."Heritage Park 3, this is Teddy," said R.

Kelly."Do you know the latest time Titanic is

playing," said a lady.R. Kelly told the lady 9:30. He hung up. Line

1 and Line 2 were clear. He heard the theater doors open. People walked into the lobby. R. Kelly closed his spiral notebook. He went into the theater. He swept popcorn into the dustpan. He picked up an empty box of Milk Duds. He swept a Hot Tamale into the dustpan.

“Kells!” said Teddy Riley.R. Kelly jumped. He saw Teddy Riley at the

door.“Someone wants to talk to you,” said Teddy

Riley.R. Kelly looked out the theater doors. R.

Kelly saw a man standing in the lobby. The man had on a tank top, jeans, Timberland boots. The man looked at R. Kelly. R. Kelly nodded at the man. The man walked to R. Kelly.

“You R. Kelly?”“Yeah.”“I’m the brother you just got off the phone

with.”“Oh...”“I’m DMX.”R. Kelly looked away.“I didn’t know you was so young. I should’ve

known since you workin’ at a motherfuckin’ movie theater in the motherfuckin’ mall,” said DMX. “No wonder Dina said nothing happened…how old are you?”

R. Kelly looked away.“Shit, I came ready to stomp some ass. But

nothing happened. Right?”DMX looked at R. Kelly with an angry

expression. R. Kelly shook his head. “Right. Cause I’d stomp your ass.” DMX walked out of the lobby. R. Kelly

exhaled. Aaliyah walked by the box office. DMX waved at Aaliyah. They talked. R. Kelly watched DMX talk to Aaliyah. Aaliyah laughed and threw back her hair.. JB

February 2010

DU-TECHDutch Dooley, Owner701 Sheridan RoadWinnetka, IL 60093

Dear Doyle, How are you? I hope everything is well in New York. Your mother and I have had plenty of snow here in Chicago! I just wanted to drop a note and catch up. I hope things have calmed down on Wall Street. I’m just glad it’s a new year. Time to start over. On that note, I wanted to say sorry about the time I told you to go “f yourself and blow some coke out of a call girl’s rear-end.” I was definitely over-served that Fourth of July. While we’re on the topic of drink-ing, I’d also like to apologize for last Christmas when I called white wine “fag juice.” Maybe I had one too many glasses of “Barley Butt Booze”. I’m kidding, beer’s for men and always will be.

Believe me, this is as hard to write, as I’m sure it is to hear. That reminds me, I’d also like to apologize for telling you to take the dicks out of your ear when you wouldn’t listen to me about Obama’s plan to have death soldiers. A simple misunderstanding. I think we’re all a little smarter after that little discussion. Remind me not to drink and debate. And I want to apologize for the time I punched in the face when you told me lottery tickets were nothing more than a poor tax. Now that we’ve made amends, I need to ask you for a favor. You know how tough times are. Of course you do, hell, that’s your job. Side note, your mother and I getting ready to retire. Hopefully soon. But we’re not sure how that’s going to work. Let’s talk about it over Memo-rial Day weekend. Love,

Dad

japanesebaseball.us/440272894 by Matt Sorrell

Japanese Baseball

It was a typical heatless start to another day in my house in Quetzaltenango, Guatemala the morning I left for the warmer coastal town of Champerico. To make the most out of my daytrip I embarked directly after my traditional breakfast of over-fried and under seasoned eggs. I was at the bus station by eight o’clock. The station had nothing more than lines of old American

Blue Bird school buses painted brightly parked behind an open-air market. Hectic buying, selling and noise included, this station is typical of most Central American stations. I was hoarded immediately onto a bus headed toward the Pacific Coast. We departed shortly after the bus had filled enough for the driver to make it worth the trip. I took immediate comfort in this


Guatemala Beach Livingby Ben Kammerle

February 2010

specific bus because it had a flat screen television mounted above the driver—an indication that the owner had enough money put into this aging bus to ensure its continual functionality. I took additional relief in an older man whom was sitting behind me gripping a club the size of his leg. I imagined that if anything were to go awry during the ride, he would have my back.

Two hours in and about halfway there, the bus pulled into Retalhuleu. As the bus parked alongside a market and all the passengers got off, I luckily grabbed the driver as he was exiting to clear up my confusion. It seems that I was the lone person continuing onto the beach on a Tuesday morning and he was return to continue on after snacking while the bus filled up again. The morning was growing increasingly hotter as I waited for the bus to load. After half an hour, we were on our way again headed through the banana farms toward the ocean, as I noticed that I was again the only foreigner on this second leg of the trip.

The bus ripped into a sleeping beach town consisting of a few streets with minor foot, bike and tuk-tuk traffic. We had arrived. After seeing the bulk of the town approaching, we rolled to a stop on a side street and again I was the last remaining passenger as the locals had called out their stops and departed along the way. The driver pointed me in the direction of the beach, only saying, “playa,” as I thanked him and finally got off myself. I walked, following his suggestion, but did not see anything reminiscent of beaches I was familiar with—flocks of people at built-up tourist destinations. Walking closer, I found a dirt road lined with outdoor shack restaurants that fronted onto the sand of the beach. I stripped off my clothes and unsheathed my bathing suit. Shoving my jeans into my backpack and removing my shoes, I headed for the water. This brief march lasted but only a minute before noticing the burning hot sand and running in agony to the shade of an abandon lifeguard tower where I quickly put on my shoes before continuing on. I set up near the water fifty meters from the handful of local groups that seemed to be enjoying their day at the beach, yelling and swimming in combinations of swimwear and sweat suits, which passes for proper beach attire in Guatemala.

I had set up my towel and organized the area around me and commenced relaxing, hopping in and out of the water for a swim to soothe the heat I would develop while reading or studying. This cycle continued for over an hour before I noticed

three men sauntering up from down the beach. Thinking nothing of it, I continued reading until I noticed they were coming toward me quickly. The three of them had approached, trapping me, yelling phrases beyond my level of Spanish. It was not until I noticed the one in front of me had a slingshot extended back that I understood that I was being held up. In that rapid moment, I negated the fact that a slingshot is actually a weapon or that the men were that large and elected to do the opposite of what I’ve ever heard and resist as they went to grab my backpack. In hindsight, this was not the best decision. The bag contained nothing more than my Spanish study books, clothes and some snacks. I tried to make this fact clear to them as they all went for the contents but it was futile. I held on to the bag with one hand and fighting them off with the other. The slingshot was released, firing its unknown contents directly into my bare side. Before I could feel the pain from this shot the other two jumped on me in an attempt to loosen the bag from my grasp. As we rolled in the sand, I received constant blows to my face, head and torso. Heightened adrenaline gave me a feeling of invincibility at the time as I continued to ward of the attackers as they gripped me by the neck, unloading on my one hundred thirty-five pound body. This did not last more than two nor three minutes when my better judgment triumphed and I realized I was fighting a losing battled. I decided to cut my losses and loosen my grip, awarding them my bag.

There was nothing more I could do as I

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remained in the sand defeated and watched the assailants make their escape down the beach. As they ran, they began to pilfer through my bag, discarding unwanted objects. Finally, a hundred meters down, they dropped the bag and most of its contents and continue their escape. Shamefully, I walked down, covered in sand, to collect my effects. I reclaimed my bag and started picking up everything thrown out of it on my walk back to my remaining items left strewed about where I was once peacefully set up. I was nearly back when a wave swelled up, soaking my book, towel and sweatshirt and carrying away my shoes, taking them afloat in the ocean like little boats. I chased them down and grabbed them just as another wave was about to take them further out.

Evaluating the events that had just occurred and what was missing, I was surprised to find most of my belongings remained. The only absent object was my two-dollar knife that I had stored away in the front pocket of my bag. I sat there trying to comprehend what had just happened as I brushed off the sand covering myself and everything I had left before I attempted to pack up.

While attempting to reclaim some sort of dignity, I looked over to see three men walking towards me in a spread out single file line. As they closed in, I saw two heavy-set middle-aged men soaked to the bone wearing swim trunks and collared short-sleeve shirts and a younger athletic looking man in tow. They first two immediately identified themselves as Catholic priests through their gold-crowned teeth and wide smiles, checking to see if I was all right since they had seen the incident from afar. At that point I was weary to trust anyone so I tried to be brief with my explanation and be on my way. In what little criminal terminology I knew in Spanish, I explained the event and they seemed to understand. I could tell quickly that they were genuinely concerned, which relaxed my elevated level of fear. After my explanation and conclusion that I was not harmed much by the ordeal they offered a prayer on my behalf. I was mystified at this request, not being a religious person and certainly not Catholic. I was intrigued and figured I should take whatever blessing I was offered at that point. As the three holy men surrounded me, I was reminded of my early encounter. I quickly changed my deliberation once they begin prayer for my strong heart and mind.

Upon completion of their prayers and

confirmation that I was in fact unharmed they were on their way and I continued to pack and move towards the rest of the beachgoers to ward off any return attacks. While walking I was stopped again by one of the priests and invited to join them at the restaurant shack where their car was parked. Hungry and in need of friendly faces, I accompanied them to the restaurant where I was able to clean myself up and organize my belongings. As I approached the table after putting myself back together, I noticed that they had a frosty Coca-Cola already waiting for me. We sat there and drank our sodas, discussing their missionary work in the region, the bible and a bit about my life history and religious views. Although religion is something I try to avoid discussing when possible, especially with priests, it was a pleasant meeting, sitting at that plastic table under the palm thatched roof. They were forced to continue on so we said our goodbyes and hugged. Before I knew it they were out of site and I was alone once again.

Cautious that the assailants were coming back and hungry, I remained at the restaurant. I hadn’t eaten since breakfast and original lunch timing thwarted by the day’s events. I sat alone and ate a impressive meal consisting of a whole fried fish, soup, fries and a salad while searching through my Spanish dictionary looking for any words that would help me to best explain later what had happened to me during my beach getaway. I paid my bill with the money I kept securely in my bathing suit pocket and heading for the bus.

While I walked I was examining everyone around on that brief journey. I boarded the first bus I saw knowing that it would not continue on to my final destination but not caring of any hectic transfer through bustling markets I would have to endure. At that point, it was of no concern as long as I was able to make it out of Champerico. While I sat on the bus waiting for it to depart, I was eyeing each person who boarded, suspicious of everyone. As the bus engine revved up I felt as if I was in the clear with a seat all to myself to boot. No sooner did a woman entered with a magnificent plume peaking from inside her bag. I wondered how and where she had purchased such beautiful feathers as she walked closer to me. Then I realized where I was as she sat next to revealing that she was actually carrying a live rooster in her handbag. The bus departed and as I began to lose sight of the beach town; the chicken began to defecate which it would continue to do the rest of the ride. JB

February 2010


El Fuego by Ricky Federico & Michael Wachs

This is a phone conversation that took place in the aftermath of the Friday Night Lights season 4 finale. If you have not seen the episodes until that point, this conversation will both make no sense and be riddled with spoilers.

It is also riddled with giggling on account of Michael and grown men saying "like" way too much. Oh, it's also 38 minutes long.

Nevertheless, we hope you enjoy. Listen online. JB

Japanese Baseball

japanesebaseball.us/444118418by Jacob Raphael Mazin

February 2010

from the Elementary manual of the Yiddish language with exercises & conversations (1909)

Japanese Baseball

Last Monday morning, I woke up at around 8am with a goal in my mind and a spark in my heart. It was time. After a week of fiddle-faddlin’, lolly gagglin’, and zzz catchin’, the time had come for me to find my first job in my new home, New York City. Unfortunately, I ended up watching about 6 hours of television instead. I am still unemployed.

During this TV-watching session, my longest

in years, I ended up tuning in to Live with Regis and Kelly, a morning talk show hosted by morning talk show hosts Regis and Kelly. The first guest was actor/writer/deep thinker Ethan Hawke. Hawke was born in Austin, TX, where I lived for over 8 years, so I can totally get down with the Hawke-man. The interview went smooth, although the hosts didn’t ask him to sing a Violent Femmes song on-air, which I


Black Leather Jacketby Keith Poulson

February 2010

considered a missed opportunity. There was a commercial break, and then the second guest came out. It was two-time Olympic redhead Shaun White, fresh off the slopes with his new gold medal dangling from his neck. The medal was not the only interesting fashion choice made by the Ginger Air on this appearance though. In fact, I have no idea what was even said in the short Q&A, because I couldn’t take my eyes and mind off the fact that the Flying Tomato was laughing and politely answering the hosts’ questions while wearing a pretty tough looking black leather jacket. And he was pulling it off.

The black leather jacket is such an iconic fashion piece, largely because it has been used by so many different groups. Motorcyclists, pilots, cops, punks, metalheads, Nazis, the Black Panthers, and these kids that smoked weed in my high school’s gym bathroom. And in pop culture, there are some obvious key references that spring to mind: whether it’s rebellious Marlon Brando in The Wild One or the loveable greasers like Arthur Fonzarelli and half the cast of Grease. BLJs have been worn by tough cyborgs (T2: Judgment Day), awesomely flamboyant homosexuals (Cruising, that fake cop from The Village People, Top Gun), and by men that were perhaps just a little bit too pretty and needed a touch of the tough (Eddie and the Cruisers, Rumble Fish, last week’s episode of Live with Regis and Kelly). Countless heroes and

villains have taken on the duty of wearing the jacket and making it mean something, but for me, there is one person that pulls it off the best. He is an actor with over 180 roles on his IMDB page, and yet as far as I know has only shown up leather-clad a couple times. That’s all he needed to solidify it in my brain though. You may have never seen him wearing one, so this might seem like a confusing choice for the BLJ award. But, for me, the black leather jacket’s ultimate icon is Gerard Depardieu, specifically in the two French films, Going Places and Loulou.

If I were to write a long thesis paper about Depardieu, it would probably end with me declaring him to be the second coming of Jesus Christ (need proof? His last name, De/Par/Dieu = Of/By/God. More proof? He has vineyards, where they use water to make wine). I consider him to be one of the greatest things France has ever produced. But I didn’t always think that. I doubt that too many non-Europeans do. Why? Because his English-speaking movies are, for the most part, not very good. The Last Holiday, 102 Dalmatians, My Father The Hero, Green Card, The Man in the Iron Mask, CQ, and Babylon A.D.? These are the kinds of movies that you don’t want to watch even if they are on Hulu for free. So, we’ve mostly gotten the wrong idea about the man. Think about it this way. What if somebody coming out of a forty year coma had to judge Robert DeNiro as an actor, but could only watch

Japanese Baseball

movies he’s put out during 2000-2009. (Side note/coincidence: Gerard Depardieu and Robert DeNiro have apparently been good friends since they worked on Bertolucci’s 1900 together in the mid-70’s) (Other side note: My Father, The Hero was a remake of a French film where he had played the same character; sort of like Penelope Cruz did with Abre Los Ojos/Vanilla Sky, or Jean Reno did with Just Visiting/Les Visiteurs).

Depardieu has been working almost constantly in France. There has been at least one movie or television program featuring him released every year for the last forty years. He is THE French superstar and was, and possibly still is, their highest paid actor per film. He has been nominated for an Oscar for best actor in Cyrano de Bergerac and he’s won several of the top European acting awards over the years. He has worked with some of the great directors; Barbet Schroeder, Francois Truffaut, Bertrand Blier (7 times, including Going Places), Serge Gainsbourg, Bernardo Bertolucci, Alain Resnais, Maurice Pialat (Loulou), Andrzej Wajda, Ridley Scott, Norman Jewison, Kenneth Branagh, and Claude Chabrol have all used him in their films. He has directed films himself, including the short film in Paris, je t’aime with Gena Rowlands and Ben Gazzara. Not bad for a poor, troublemaker

from Central France.Depardieu was born in Chateauroux. The

youngest of six, he learned at an early age that his mother had unsuccessfully tried to abort him with knitting needles. By age thirteen, he had already dropped out of school and hitchhiked across Europe on an informal tour funded primarily by the profits of stolen cars and assorted black-market products. Depardieu would likely have continued in his juvenile delinquency were it not for a friend who was attending drama school in Paris. Intrigued, Depardieu enrolled at the Theatre National Populaire, where he studied his trade alongside Patrick Dewaere and Miou-Miou. These actors would later go on to be his co-stars in shorts and feature films, including Going Places. After the release of that film, he began getting roles with alarming frequency, working alongside some of the most famous French actors, and earning recognition for being able to keep up with them. He is willing to play a wide range of characters, from the grotesque to the kind, always bringing a unique sensibility into it.

Also, of relevance, he’s a pretty insane looking man.

Gerard Depardieu, like a black, leather jacket, seems to work best when seen in bars, covered in

GERARD DEPARDIEU FILMS SLATED FOR RELEASE IN 2010 & 2011La tête en friche, Potiche, Une femme d'affaires, Vivaldi, The Job, Monet, la lumière

February 2010

dirt, or in the midst of a fist fight. His head is enormous, his body is thick and he’s got a face shaped like a giant pitbull’s skull. His nose is so big, that he must have taken on the role of Cyrano de Bergerac because he needed some kind of perspective consideration. But he’s captivating and Leonard Maltin (or perhaps it was John Landis) once even called him “filmdom’s most ungainly sex symbol.” There is a mixture of brutality, intelligence, softness and stupidity that makes for something extraordinary.

In the two films I’m highlighting, Depardieu doesn’t wear the jacket to be part of larger group. He doesn’t need to it to look tough. He doesn’t seem too concerned with being cool, so much as just getting laid. He’s a criminal in both movies. He drinks. He can be violent. He can be uncaring. He can come across as sort of an idiot. And yet you care about him, you like him, almost inexplicably. You’re just as confused by your attraction to him as the other characters in the films. I’ve seen about 20 Depardieu films, but it’s Going Places and Loulou that really made me take notice. And while I’m not going to use the remaining bit of this essay as a forum to review or critique the two films or even give a general summary, I will say this: They are two of my favorite French films. Both feature

great performances by Depardieu and Isabelle Huppert. Both deal with sex, relationships, violence and humor in ways I hadn’t seen before. And, most importantly, both feature Gerard Depardieu looking awesome, iconic in my mind, in a BLJ.

On February 19, 2010, the Berlin International Film Festival hosted the first of several screenings of a new movie starring Depardieu entitled Mammuth. I had seen this title listed as an upcoming film on his IMDB page, but I had been having a hard time finding much out about the film. Two days ago, a movie news website posted some clips from the film, and a brief summary of the plot. In the clips, several scenes show Gerard, fat with long stringy hair, looking a big like Mickey Rourke in The Wrestler. This comparison is heightened in the second clip, as G.D. argues with a man at a deli counter for not taking pride in his job, cutting ham. It seems funny and sad and I want to see it. Then the video cuts to a different scene. In it, our protagonist, Gerard Depardieu, walks down a desolate road. He is fat. He is beaten down. He is old. He is wearing a BLACK. LEATHER. JACKET. It’s been over 35 years since Going Places came out and he’s still the man for the job. JB

blanche, Le grimoire d'Arkandias (rumored), L'aviseur (rumored), Astérix chez les Bret-ons, Veel üks croissant (rumored), Voici le temps des assassins (rumored), Small World

Japanese Baseball

Attacked in AlabamaAltered in Alaska

Arraigned in ArkansasAssassinated in Arizona

Cut in California

Cropped in ColoradoCanned in Connecticut

Defaced in Delaware

Filleted in FloridaGrilled in Georgia

Honeyed in Hawaii

Idolized in IdahoInvestigated in IllinoisInterviewed in Indiana

Isolated in Iowa

Corralled in KansasCurtailed in Kentucky

Lobotomized in Louisiana

Marked in MaineMarried in Maryland

Misplaced in MassachusettsMissed in MichiganManic in Minnesota

Mistaken in MississippiMurdered in MissouriMourned in Montana

Nomadic in NebraskaNervous in Nevada

Neurotic in New HampshireNarcotic in New Jersey

Nihilistic in New MexicoNoosed in New York

Nullified in North CarolinaNormalized in North Dakota

Orphaned in Ohio

Ostracized in OklahomaOppressed in OregonPitied in PennsylvaniaRued in Rhode Island

Smacked in South CarolinaStripped in South Dakota

Torn in TennesseeTrashed in TexasEuthanized Utah

Violated in Vermont

Vindicated in VirginiaWashed in Washington

Weighed in West VirginiaWatered in Wisconsin

Wilted in Wyoming


Afflictions in Areasby Jack Dolgen

February 2010

Late 90s. Print was probably already dead then. It had taken too many phone calls to find a cheap offsetter. Indie bookstores feared the big boxes cutting in on their Thirdspace. Distributors, bowing to shelving and stocking requirements laid down by the chain store, put limits on the sizes of independent magazines. (This was around the time Metropolis magazine dropped from full tabloid to its current shelf-friendly size.)

Still, I was blissed out on the print shop’s Thomas Paine authenticity. I figured it’d gloss my tracks with a meaning and texture not found with rapid digital printing. The details: the smell of ink, rich and bitter like coffee, the Berkeley Co-op apron worn by the grizzled anarchist, the cranky press he quietly turned, and his punk rock partner’s punctilious manner. I can’t remember if I printed 500 or 1,000 copies. Some sit in a box in the basement. On my last visit home I opened it up: A hundred ochre-covered pamphlets, surprisingly un-yellowed a decade on.

And now? Print is dead, again. As publishing empires collapse, the market bets on journalism’s

odds of survival. Consensus says books are a lost cause. Are folks ready to cotton to Kindle? Has twitter killed the blog, the book, and the building? (I ask in a mere 83 characters.)

As go buildings, so go design magazines. This past year saw shelter and trade titles stumble and fold under the double deadweight of slow building starts and curtailed ad revenue. A year after Lehman’s collapse, missing consumer design rag Domino is like missing cotton candy—a vague remembrance of a cavity-inducing indulgence, so sweet at the time.

Indeed, I have to stop myself from falling into the vat of saccharine nostalgia that surrounds the publishing in the grand scheme, architecture publishing, and my own little niche of zinedom. Staple fold reminiscences, no matter how open hearted, tend to lead to a single polar standoff: print versus digital. But dividing publishing into two camps leaves us empty handed. Even the Gray Lady, the New York Times, splits her time between the two realms, pacifying those who stand and read the paper on the subway and those who glean their info online.


Blue Lobstersby Mimi Zeiger

loud paper

Japanese Baseball

Meanwhile a number small architecture and art publications are sneaking into the space between the two modes. They are dependent on both mediums. They rely on social networks and digital technologies for form and content, but ultimately these wee volumes find their way into readers’ hands. For Gary Fogelson, Phil Lubliner and Soner Ön, the Brooklyn-based trio who makes up The Holster, publishing is performative. It calls attention to the act of making, even if that act is really just stapling some laser printed sheets. The collective commissioned sixteen artist to create PDFs, then set up their print-on-demand imprint, Demand & Supply, at zine expos and book fairs. Armed with laptop and printer, they publish in real time, straddling the gap between intimacy and automation.

Ephemera obsessions are de rigueur within certain circles of the contemporary art world. In 2001, the darling Hamburger Eyes established DIY publishing as the go-to format for photogs wanting to capture the grit of everyday life. And galleries/retailers like New York City’s Printer Matter and LA newcomer Ooga Booga curate short run editions into a kind of artistic lifestyle. That architecture should eventually re-embrace self-publishing after years of the book-versus-blog discourse is welcome, if not entirely unsurprising. The discipline is known to be a bit tardy.

Within the field of architecture and ubiquitous computing the Situated Technologies Pamphlet Series was relatively early adopter print-on-demand services, even as design students had been using the technology for one-off books for awhile. The publication is the outcome of a discussion on the Institute for Distributed Creativity (iDC) mailing list, which then grew into a 2006 symposium at Urban Center and Eyebeam in New York. Unlike the Supply & Demand series, it uses the mainstream online publisher lulu.com as its printer and distributor. PDFs are available for free on the Situated Technologies website, making the decision to read online or in hard copy a personal choice.

I am tempted to call these new publications “zombies,” following Todd Gannon’s assessment (Log, Fall 2008) of Archigram and other sixties practitioners unbuilt work that persists in its influence after facing a critical death. Especially since that groups’ publications provide the emotional, if not intellectual or formal, underpinning of today’s self-publishing efforts. Or as he puts it in the essay, “Return of the Living Dead: Archigram and Architecture’s

Monstrous Media:” “In nine and one-half eponymous pamphlets released from 1961 to 1974, Archigram took advantage of the highly reconfigurable space of the printed page to manipulate forms, juxtapose elements, and orchestrate architectural experiments impossible in other media.”

But given that experiments in other media could now be taken to define much of architectural practice, I prefer to call these half-breeds “mutants.” Living between paper and screen, mutants are part of publishing’s evolution, even if a specific characteristic proves too unwieldy to pass on to the next generation. Some mutations are sneaky. As is the loud paper broadsheet, published as half issue, half catalogue for the “A Few Zines” show that opened at Studio-X in January 2009. Designer Chris Grimley used the column width of a blog post to organize the page. Without being explicit, the broadsheet triggers digital references.

An iPhone is the mutant appendage needed to read Standpunkte One. Aptly entitled This Will _ This, the first issue features a single essay by John Harwood and Jesse LeCavalier who conceived the pamphlet with graphic designer Guillaume Mojon. (Standpunkte Magazine itself is out of Basel, Switzerland and edited by Reto Geiser and Tilo Richter.) A shiny black cipher, the publication is full of totemic black and white graphics. Yet, a 2D bar code reader app brings the pamphlet to life. Encryption is at the root of this first issue. A scan of the cover graphics takes you to www.thiswill-this.net. Where the editorial statement reads: "You will not to be able to read this, at least not all of it. This is fine with us." By placing the phone a filter between the web and the printed page, This Will _ This, frustrates the act of reading, but still maintains the need for a book object. It explores, as the editors write, "the thresholds and overlaps between material and immaterial media.”

It is impossible to state that mutant publishing will bring traditional print media back from death’s door. That economic model needs to independently reassemble its DNA. (Then again, it may reanimate quicker than we think. Tina Brown’s online Daily Beast just announced that it is teaming up with Perseus Books Group to create rapid-print paperbacks.) But these mutants—esoteric pamphlets operating at the riff of “material and immaterial media”—show dynamic signs of life and happily elude any nostalgic impulse. JB

February 2010

Top: Supply & Demand, Situated Technologies pamphlet.Bottom: Situated Technologies pamphlet, Supply & Demand

Japanese Baseball

This Will _ This

You can do something you enjoy.

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japanese baseball, march 2010

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