I just inadvertently lost two and a half hours combing through three Wikipedia categories, of all things: Magazines published in California, in Oregon, and in Missouri. (I’m currently exercising huge restraint to keep from exploring further through the Southern states — especially Texas and Louisiana.) It’s proved absolutely facinating, but very somber as well — many or most of the publications across these lists went defunct before 2016. Some have even been jacked of their archives by ad-plastered stop pages or indie clothing brands, but I’m not going to beg you to justify for me why these things must come to pass for obscure trade journals (even for those with ultra-sexy titles like Test & Measurement World, Light Metal Age, or Trailer Life,) print-dependent punk bi-weeklies, and Commodore 64 disk magazines. Instead, I’d simply complain about the loss of revolutionary or generally innovative projects like these while age-old hags carrying age-old ideas like Reason have continued more or less unencumbered.
(Imagines Ayn Rand reading the words “SHOP REASON SWAG” over and over again with building terror.)
On that note, I find it especially bizarre that some anarchist fellow named Jason McQuinn was able to amass enough of a community in my little hometown to call themselves the “Columbia Anarchist League” and publish a periodical from the area with a quite-rousing title without my knowledge at all.
Though he’d long departed Columbia for the West Coast by the time I was an adult, it would seem he was around as late as September 1998, which shouldn’t have left enough time for his name to disappear from the minds of my instructors in high school or the University of Missouri’s professors, at least, given the esteemed reputation of its Journalism School. And yet — even throughout my most ideologically-activated teenhood, I never once heard it mentioned that such an individual and/or organization had ever been at work in their proximity. The only photo I could find of Jason McQuinn was on Wikipedia commons and I’d say I recognize him from somewhere, but he honestly looks exactly the same as all 40, 50, 60-something white guys do in the Midwest.
Now, though, I’d like to share my journey through those lists (and the rest of my iPhone battery’s remaining charge) via screenshots of the great many which stood out.
Make no mistake: this is as good as publishing gets, folks. While wandering through endless broken or archived links, I also found the cleverly-named LiveJournal Editor’s Life Unedited, to which I can already relate more than anything or anyone else I’ve ever encountered in this existence.
It was a nice day in the Big Bike City.
Just a reminder that my iPhone 8 Plus has a great fucking camera. It’s uncannily, unfathomably, annoyingly good. Here are some of the key shots from by far the most dramatic leg of our Missouri-Oregon pilgrimage.
Hawthorn and I were on what was supposed to be the last leg of our cross-country roadtrip to Portland, blasting up the vast, otherworldly Interstate 80, about 90 minutes East of the Utah border. It was late afternoon and we were both beginning to get hungry, so we decided to stop in Rock Springs, which the roadside signage had been emphasizing for a significant distance. Despite its miserly population of less than 25,000, the area is the fourth most populated municipality in the state. (Incredibly, Cheyenne — capitol and most populate of Wyoming — has only 62,845 occupants as of 2014.)
I spied and set course for Exit 104, but hit some kind of massive, traumatic fissure in the asphalt with my XJR’s right-front tire (this will become important information momentarily.) The sort of impact that makes you yell, but doesn’t quite worry you about a puncture or damaged suspension, though perhaps it should have worried me, considering that I’d already destroyed two tires and a wheel in a particularly-harrowing pothole strike in July, back in rural Missouri. Regardless, the twenty-year-old, massively overladen Executive Saloon had already endured so much more than I would’ve expected from it in the past four days of the trip — including the moderately treacherous Loveland Pass near Keystone, CO — that my confidence in its invulnerability had been significantly bolstered.