If you could bottle and sell the scent of New York Fashion Week this season it would be called “Despair”. And if fashion was not in a tragic enough of a mess, the one designer our generation put our hopes into, Mr. Alexander McQueen, topped himself, by way of hanging, just hours before “the week” was about to begin. So when the grim reaper showed up, we were all wearing our black mourning clothes regardless, for lack of direction or
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Black to the Future
Saturday, February 20th, 2010 by Petra Mason, New York
If you could bottle and sell the scent of New York Fashion Week this season it would be called “Despair”. And if fashion was not in a tragic enough of a mess, the one designer our generation put our hopes into, Mr. Alexander McQueen, topped himself, by way of hanging, just hours before “the week” was about to begin. So when the grim reaper showed up, we were all wearing our black mourning clothes regardless, for lack of direction or
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Tokyo Nurse Fantasy
Friday, February 12th, 2010 by Brandon Edmonds
I lived & worked in Korea for 2 years, a little while ago, doing what it is you do with a B.A. degree: teaching English to little Gap-clad emperors with lungs as yet unharmed by those sloppy life-style choices that kill us, the deadly release of cigarettes and alcohol. They’re loud, kids, is what I’m intimating. Fucking loud. If you must have them, and, really, does the planet need life-sized souvenirs of your own petty carnality
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Fear of a Vanilla City
Friday, February 5th, 2010 by Gustav Preller
Don’t fear, it’s just gentrification
Eastwards: “Luxury cars and toilet paper for everyone.”
It was a December night and I was in a Volksküche – a sort of wannabe soup kitchen for cultivated ascetics – off the Frankfurter Allee in Friedrichshain. I was there on ratty sofas with two girls who worked for the department of economic development and collaboration – a government department that gives German tax money to third world countries
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Dragon’s Treasure
Friday, January 29th, 2010 by Samora Chapman
As the stars faded, the mosque called out to the sleepy souls of Taghazout. It was time for Morning Prayer; time to pay tribute to the gift of a new day. But we were awoken by a different calling. A deep pounding, growling thunder. The ocean’s heartbeat.
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Moroc ‘n Rollers
Saturday, January 23rd, 2010 by Samora Chapman
Part 2: Holy baptisms, forget your sins.
We woke up early and peered through the window at the dusty street scene of Aurir, a haggard little town on the coast of Morocco, North Africa. A group of men sat contemplating, covered in hooded robes and brightly coloured pointy shoes. A pack of filthy hounds rummaged in a gutter that ran blood red. Further up the road a butcher was slitting throats in the dawn.
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Moroc the Party
Friday, January 15th, 2010 by Samora Chapman
Prologue: London
It was October, the last of the summer sun rays had soaked into the concrete. The trees shed their leaves. Businessmen on the tubes clutched their newspapers whispering ‘crisis’, the madmen in Camden clutched their Stellas and spat in the cold.
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