Monster Children Issue #18
Welcome to issue 18. Pull up your favourite chair, take the phone off the hook and dive straight into 120 pages of art genius, photographic master pieces and literature wonder. This issue we open up the sketchbooks of graphic superstars, go shooting dogs in Bucharest with Stephen Dupont, hangout with Kings of Leon for a night and get to know the design work of Kevin Lyons. There's also fashion pages, ipods, the Black Lips, Jason Dills disposable camera and we check out Battles' setup. Melbourne designer Beci Orpin's work could fill up another 8 pages and a conversation with Rip Zinger could last another 8 years. If thats not 118 pages of love then the page 33 double should tip you right over the edge. Enjoy issue 18 and if anyone interrupts your reading, throw a chair at them.
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Intro
Dearest Monster Childies,
You’ll never guess who I bumped into on the corner 17th and 51st the other day? Bob fucking Geldoff dudes – all pinstriped whacky-grey-haired six foot five of him. He was on his cell and he had this concerned look on his face so I figured he must be talking to someone about malnourished kids but as I got closer I heard him say “I’m totally fooking lost, send a car to come get me!” Ha! I decided not to ask Sir Bob for a photo cause he looked royally pissed off and besides that I was already running late to meet George at Kirsten Dunst’s birthday party up town. I tell you, for a city that never closes down getting a yellow cab over here can eat kilos of toid pizza. Maybe the fact there was 12 of us and it was 4:30 in the morning had something to do with it? Anyway we gave up on the taxis and hailed down a limo. This is NYC after all, gotta live large and make an entrance right? Wanker. It was a pretty sweet ride though. As it pulled up I could see lights from the Chrysler building reflecting off my fillings in the reflection of the limos highly polished oyster white exterior. We got in and the driver told us to rip into the cognac and being short of coin I took up his offer with great fervour. And there I was lads, stretch cruising through the big Aps, swirling a crystal mug of the sweet brown just trippin out on the number of crew still infesting the sidewalks an hour-or-two out from dawn. Then my phone starts ringing. It’s Georgey so I pick up and he asks where I am. As I’m about to tell him the limo starts slowing down and I spot him straight across the road outside the party. “Look across the street dudeschool!” Without thinking I hurl open the door only to see a yellow blur followed by that unique sickening crunch of high impact steel on steel – rule one in the idiot’s guide to travelling: don’t get out of the wrong side of the car. The door is gone, wedged somewhere up between the front of the limo and the yellow cab that smashed it off so I’m just sitting there all exposed as traffic zips by. I look over at George and as well as his expressionless face I notice we’re both still on the phone. We hang up simultaneously and calm as you like George canters across the road pokes his head into the car and says: “I suggest you all run.” And we did, so quickly in fact that I still had the cognac in my hand when I sat down in the deepest darkest corner of the soiree. Alas our great escape was soon foiled when the driver of the cab caught one of the other passengers on the flee. In the end we avoided the fuzz by handing over a cool 500 greenbacks (I told Kirsten you guys would pay her back so expect an invoice from her agent soon) which was handy ’cause insurance and shit over here can keep you tangled in red tape for centuries. The party turned out to be pretty lame so George and I went ’round the corner and drank in some dirty little Irish Pub till the sky turned blue and our eyeballs turned black. It’s strange really I always feel some relief when the night comes to an end in this city. But then is there anything better than the sun sinking into that grossly conjested Manhattan skyline with the promise of God knows what brewing in it’s lengthening shadows? A vicious cycle alright and one I’m not well financed for. Send more money and give Gallery Joe’s Moe a little pat for me. Love VDx
