Available at Everyday Music and Millennium Music!
FREE CD/ZINE IF YOU ARE ANYWHERE NEAR THE SEVENTH CIRCLE MUSIC COLLECTIVE ANYTIME AFTER 4/20/2016!!! (While supplies last.)
Don't worry though if you aren't going to see some of the best local and national acts playing punk/ska/rock/etc. in the raw near Denver, CO. We here at FPM will give you all the freebies that folks getting blazed up in Colorado are enjoying for free.
Such as this house band, bossa Morrissy cover:
And finally, a wonderful new story by FPM co-owner Chris Castro that you can read here:
Snotty robots having dinner with priests, manic depressive superheroes and a villain known only as 'The Utilitarian!' Fake Publishing Millionaires' first Sci-fi mag, released at the Pioneer Works' Zine Swap in Brooklyn, June 2015.
An excerpt from 'Print is Dead' story 'Manic Depression and Superheroes' by Ilan Moskowitz:
Origin stories are a slippery slope, a worse scourge on the superhero community than Kryptonian Death Herpes. The biggest symptom is a need for identity. A lot of folks need it so bad they juggle like seven identities at once. There are support groups for it and all that. But I tell you, no matter how many capes a person puts on, none of them can ever think up a good name.
Take the Human Flea for instance, that’s a guy who a 20-car-pile-up with a subatomic tractor/trailer back in the 1960s made turn any noise he heard into the next decade’s top pop hits. Must’ve been cool back then, as cool as disco ever could be.
Then the 70s hit and there was the Human Flea spouting the same 20 singles. It’s the 90s now and no change yet. The Geezer Bar won’t even book him on flashback weekends. But that’s not the odd part; it’s actually pretty common in the superhero community.
What stands out about The Human Flea is that fucking name of his. It never made any sense. What the fuck does a Human Flea have to do with boogie fever? I asked him about it once and quickly realized he could only respond in ABBA lyrics. So I bought him a drink and punched him in the face. I fucking hate ABBA.
But that’s just my point: even HE feels the need to establish identity, no matter how terrible it is.
It’s all a huge, muscle-bound pissing contest. People get saved, but that’s not what it’s about. With the crime rate so low and so many heroes floating around looking bored and restless, everyone’s just itching for a fight; itching to get that face-in-the-paper glory that’s gone the way of the buffalo.
There are many theories on this, what the papers are calling a “peace-wave”:
Some blame The City’s low crime rate on its asylums and jails signing a 10-year deal with Murphy’s Waterbed Warehouse. Others think it’s the new digitized insanity pleas. Personally, I think it’s ‘cause everyone and their aunt’s a FUCKING caped crusader these days!
Overpopulation has turned an otherwise philanthropic, idealist use of power into your average Val Halla kegger. Some crime, no matter how petty, would balance this all out, and I do my part. That bodega on 7th & Main gets held up at least twice a week thanks to yours truly.
The more crime, the fewer spandex hissy-fits, and then the paper will stop using shameful terms like “Mask-on Mask Violence.”
DIRTY 3 - To - 1
BY Emma Marks
(From 'Good, Question)
“Dirty, 3 to 1, shaken.” He looked surprised. This was not that kind of bar. He serves it to her. Without lifting it she sips at the surface tension. He pours the watery dregs from the shaker into a separate glass for her. She eats the first olive. He nods once and walks away to turn on the radio.
Staying out late had pushed her morning ritual into her evening. Coffee and vodka competed in her bloodstream.
Chicago felt aloof in the August heat. It reminded her of LA, the last city they visited, and she was compelled to find an empty bar with air conditioning. It was an atmosphere that always helped her along during the last days of summer. She picked up her drink and took a longer sip, savoring the high ratio of olive brine to vodka. Beads of condensation ran down her fingers, and over her wedding band. The salty taste reminded her of the zoo. Yesterday, she’d been watching camels sucking salt licks compulsively in their exhibits.
The night before – after the zoo - she reconnected with an old friend. They’d met during her relationship with Nathan. That friend group lasted a few winters, but she was kicked out early one spring, after a turbulent breakup. Now, a few years later, she’d been invited for a catch up with one of the group’s members while she was in town. Time and loneliness are the great hatchet buriers.
When she stepped out onto the fire escape for her last cigarette, the host followed her. He handed her his gin on the rocks, “I’m too drunk." His eyes focused on the space behind her. She accepted the drink, looking up at him and noticing the sign overhead, For tenant use only. No gatherings or parties on fire escapes. She sat on the metal slats against the railing and he reclined in a patio chair covered in soot.
“This is just a phase since Mattie dumped me. I don’t consider myself a smoker anymore,” he said, a dense, blue puff saturating his equally effervescent hair.
It was clear that no one had been asking about her; she had no remaining beads on the social abacus. She wanted desperately to ask about Nathan. Instead, she behaved herself and said nothing until the thought passed. She took a drag and spit over the ledge, anticipating its long delayed smack on the pavement. She watched it fall in and out of lamp-light as it passed each landing. Her ring clinked against her glass.
“Another?” the bartender asked.
“I’m meeting someone,” she said.