Gupter Puncher Issue 6
It’s been a year since I’ve done a zine.
It’s not a good feeling to be doing nothing, so I look back to past issues and I find this…ISSUE 6…made 5 years ago [I think].
I’m quite proud of it despite the shit formatting…I’m proud of all the zines beyond issue 3 [the first 2 were pretty bad]…so I’m gonna put some of them online in PDF form. If anyone’s got an hour or two to kill…
Here’s Gupter Issue 6 to download and here’s an extract from it:
The next morning I woke up with Jay sitting on top of me. There was a map in his hand, not of San Fran, but the whole of North America.
‘This here arm of Mexico, brother,’ he said, pointing at the stretch of Mexico that led down from San Diego and away from the rest of Mexico. ‘This is the starting point.’
‘LA, San Diego, Tijuana, arm of Mexico. It’s the way forward, man. Take the train, no hassle, focus of a fucking hawk and we’re there.’
‘What about Hong Kong?’
He turned the map and looked at it again, squinting.
‘Or…fuck Mexico, and do LA?’
‘Yeah, LA solo…think it through, brother Cheech, think it fucking through. We get out of this shithole, we train it south, we get a map and pinpoint all the best star-fucking joints, we hit them, talk it up a storm, dazzle the fucking natives and Bungle’s your fucking uncle! It’s airtight, brother, no cracks in any corner…not even any corners, just a straight line to the lucky break-a-leg that’s gonna set me on my merry fucking way…fuck acting school, fuck it…the only schmucks who go there are the Giamattis and Azarias…not the Damon’s, not the Billy Bob Thorntons…’
‘…and it doesn’t even have to be acting. I’m the jack of every trade, brother, I’m the Jack Nic of every angle…’
‘Producer, man. Producer credit, that’s the key. That’s the key and the secret, right in that fucking flower patch, Chubby Biggs.’
I rolled over and tried to sleep, but Jay wasn’t having it. He pulled the blanket away and pushed me off the side of the bed. I lay there, my eyes still closed, listening to him pace up and down the room, talking, talking…
One minute we were going to LA.
The next we were running down the side of Mexico.
Then down the whole length of the continent to the tip of Argentina.
But that was too generic.
Everyone was doing that.
And he wasn’t everyone.
Or we weren’t everyone.
No, we were snowflakes.
We were going the other way, to Oregon and Vancouver and up into the Arctic Circle.
Yeah, we could live in a tent and write poetry.
Shit, didn’t I know, the best fucking poetry was written in the freezing cold.
But then it was too cold.
And maybe we weren’t poets?
Fuck it, as far as Oregon then.
There was wilderness up there, and we could walk around it.
Get lost and hunt bears.
Just like Ant Hopkins and Fats Baldwin.
I was Fats, he was Ant.
It could work.
‘Let’s do it, Ols, for once in our shitty fucking lifetimes let’s go out there and do it.’
I got up off the floor and started packing my stuff.
‘We’re doing it?’ he asked.
I ignored him.
‘Which one? Oregon? LA?’
‘Neither. I’m going back to Hong Kong.’ I picked up the t-shirt I had worn into Eggers’ reception, sweat stains under the arms. ‘You can go whichever way you want.’
He sat down on the bed.
‘I knew you’d say that.’
He sat there while I finished packing, not saying a word, just tracing lines on the map with his finger, and when I was done I turned to him and said, ‘so?’
‘So be it.’
‘So be what?’
He folded up the map and let it drop to the floor.
‘Hong Kong, brother.’