by Ian Sullivan Cant & Melissa Bull

Sarah Steinberg let me repost this piece from Vice mag.
Just the perfect sentiment for Father's Day, kiddos.


Just because my dad was never around because he was a drug-addled loser doesn't mean that he didn't teach me a couple of things. My dad (or "Dave" as he had me call him) taught me that jeans were made for wiping your dirty hands, that the word "toilet" should be pronounced like "troy-let" and how to play Ms. Pac-Man for at least half an hour on one quarter. I was thinking about calling him up to ask him a few questions about his life but then I realized that I didn't have his number. So I called my mom instead.

VICE: So it's Father's Day this weekend.

My mom: I guess so.

Have you talked to David lately?

Who's David?

My father.

Oh, David. No. Have you?

No. I didn't think he had a phone.

I don't know that he does.

Well, look. I had a question about him that I wanted to ask you. I was thinking about how when people do a lot of drugs how they usually sit around with the people they're doing the drugs with and talk about the big ideas they have and the big things they're going to do.


So I'm just wondering, what do you think he talked about when he was getting high? What were the things he was gonna do?

I don't recall David ever talking about things he was going to do.

Oh. But I mean, what were his goals?

I have no idea that he ever had any goals.

No goals?


Well what did he enjoy doing?

He played pool. And he went to the horses. And he's like a master whaddayacallit when you can pick the right number combinations to win big money?

I dunno, but he couldn't have been very good at that because otherwise he might have had a pot to piss in, right?

Well it's interesting. He told me that the first time he went to the races--he was a cashier at a deli at the time--he won something like $35,000. And it so scarred him, because when you start out winning like that, for the rest of your life you're going to give it back. And that's exactly what he did. He just kept giving it back. By that stage in his life he was already headed down. He'd already left behind a bad marriage.

What are you talking about? Who was he married to?

I've told you this before. To a woman in Sweden.

Wait . . .

But they were divorced. He led me to understand that it was a marriage of convenience.

So that she could live in the States?

No, the other way around. So that he could stay in Sweden.

He was living in Sweden?

He was eventually deported. Or repatriated.

Because he was broke? Is that some kind of capital offense in Sweden?

Oh no, not at all! It's just that the US doesn't like having to pay to bring their people home--

But why was he deported in the first place?

I have no idea, you'd have to ask him.

But how did he get to Sweden?

You'd have to ask him. Me, I never got answers.

So could I have brothers or sisters?

Sarah, I have no idea.

Yeah. OK. Well, happy Father's Day.

All right dear. You too.



by Melissa Bull & Ian Sullivan Cant

TAYLOR BROWN-EVANS are free range eggs allowed to move around the womb?

9 minutes ago

You like this.

· ·

Marcelle V.

There is no womb.

Saturday at 20:36

· ·

by Dan Svatek

2 poems
by Brandy Ryan

re verse all – jeanette winterson’s

‘cup knife compass remedy’


The strange thing about learning to look

to watch without living

… is that the eye becomes sharp, sharp

is a slow death

as a blade, and

the basil leaf left on the counter

… We start to see

unused ,

the world

that eyes me

differently, not as

as i peel, smash, and finely mince

an intellectual response, no,

the garlic,

I mean actually see

sliver the red-skinned

it, alive suddenly to

onion, julienne

ugliness and beauty, repelled by banality

(not Julian, a boy i knew once; he played guitar)

instead of habituated to it

this leaf.

The new

cannot command my attention

sight [of] art

as i heat oil

allows … no more blur

i unnotice it,

no more failure

and so its edges indigo in protest
of vision
furl inwards finally it withers to half its size in bloom.

Or, i may look – a fate no different in its inevitability.

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perpetually (sometimes petulantly) playing with words, brandy ryan lives in toronto as she considers her next move.