A Bird in the Hand
He reached into the hall closet, past the box of ski masks, fake IDs and foreign currency, and shoved the death sentence into his coat pocket. Sweat beaded on his forehead as he passed the living room. Grabbing his Budweiser he finished it in three quick gulps and headed to the kitchen.
“You ladies need anything?” he asked, grabbing a fifth of Jim Beam out of a cabinet. Several more gulps followed by a beer chaser.
“We’re just fine, Robbie,” Jenny said.
“Robbie my ass,” he muttered and headed out.
By Richard Thomas.
3:AM Asia: Otherworldly ecstasy
3:AM contributor Roland Kelts has a new column up at the Japanese Daily Yomiuri, devoted to Takeshi Koike’s Redline, which he assures me is set to become big globally soon. The Yomiuri columns are only on their site for a limited period, so will run here also: At this year’s edition of the Tokyo International […]
The North Will Rise Again
Manchester’s architecture gives rise to further possibilities. “Tony Wilson and friends took over the old WISS, a West Indian bus driver’s club in Hulme, in the shadow of a crescent, and renamed it the Factory,” explains Gina Sobers. “We weren’t hip enough to link it with Andy Warhol’s organisation. It just sounded like an apt name for a club in an industrial wasteland…”
Cathi Unsworth approves of John Robb‘s oral history of the city with so much to answer for.