by Sam Sinister
So, I'm living in Cleveland now, and I'm trying to blend in with the natives. NO, I'm not pretending to be a huge Browns advocate who hates himself... in fact, while we're on the topic, FUCK FOOTBALL.
I'm listening to the Pack A.D. and Black Death, and drinking the last of the Black Velvet in my freezer, and it occurs to me: I have no fucking clue what to write.
This is an ongoing problem.
So why would I want to write a zine? Because this town needs an enema. But I'm out of booze, and I'm already drunk, but not quite drunk enough. Maybe I should walk to the corner store... think I'll get run over?
I'm thinking about punk rock, the rarity that is good metal, or at least what I would consider good, GG Allin on Jerry Springer, and booze.
Specifically, why there are so many bands, and none of them know about each other—
Eureka! THAT'S why I wanted to write a zine. Because these lazy, self-centered fucks won't know how to network with each other if somebody doesn't.
This piece is going to be a whole fucking mess in the morning when I sober up.
Microsoft just won't let up with their fucking offers for Windows 10
Sam Sinister is a 30-something Pennsylvanian living in enemy territory who writes music and prose on a laptop in his bathroom. He is the former vocalist for street punk band Dead City Dealers, and currently plays guitar in Sump Pump Sluts and Kingsbury Runners, and sings for digital hardcore outfit, Shart 69.