On today’s episode of I Fucking Love Magazines: Anarchists Back Home

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.


Kansas City to Rock Springs

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.

Kansas City to Rock Springs