#12 $3.00 (PO Box 2246 Anaheim, CA 92814)
by Clarendon Lavorich
It seems that a man (his name is Randall Tin-Ear. Draw your own conclusions) is as bitter, pissed, and arrogant as only a prolific writer can be. Trust me, he probably takes that last sentence as a compliment. He writes nearly the whole damn mag, and his opinions are boldly defined and expounded upon at length. His obsession with classical composers, even if he has been listening to them for 15 years, and even if it is the most respected and listened to genre in musical history, still sounds like he’s trying to prove something. Sorry, Randall. I’ve been listening to that stuff too, and I don’t mention the fact that I knew Arnold Schörenberg personally in any of my reviews. A good exposé of paedophiliac phone sex, and a surprising, if a tad superficial, essay on needles (all kinds, all sizes) are included in this issue. I loved the fractal interview of Leather Hyman, and there’s enough hate to make this ‘zine go ’round. A wonderful substitute when Scott isn’t around to rant about how much people suck. One thing though; why doesn’t his typeface include a capital I? (His review of this mag would be seen as LOLLiPOP). Don’t tell me it’s art. A.T. is above that.