Fashion
Luella Bartley
Hui-Hui
Peter Jensen
Katie Gallagher

Entertainment
Alan Ball
Summer Bishil
Dr. Dog
Nima Nourizadeh
Chuck Palahniuk
Anthology Recodrings
Marina Zenovich
Zimmerman/Berg

Artists
Desireé Holman
Corndawg
Matt Furie
Molly Landreth
Matthew Lock
Nikolay Saveliev
Christopher Schulz
Darren Sylvester

Fiction
24 Hours on L16
Nobody Eats Oranges...
Some Mornings

On a Tuesday in the late spring of 1979, I was waking up in my bungalow apartment, coddled in a couple woven blankets strewn on my futon, upstairs in an old wooden house in L.A. I had a dusty, modest room smattered with books and records, a half-bath, a fridge, a microwave. I'd lived there for 14 months, and I had no complaints. At 9:45 AM, I pulled some jogging shorts on, a sleeveless shirt and aviator glasses. I drank a glass of purified rain water from my roof, re-filled the bird feeder I keep on the balcony, and winked at Pelé, staring down at me from a poster on my wall. The house's external stairs, which I was now pounding down on my way to the street, were rickety wooden things, warped and worn, like the house itself. As I rounded the corner, I chucked a garbage bag into Cynthia's metallic bin resting in the shadows, and then replaced the lid. Tied up to the front porch was my skinny blue street bike, and I looked at it for a second, admiring its perfect design, before freeing it from its confines and pedaling it down the street with my white tennis shoes (Nike).

There was a pleasant buzz in the air, an occasional gust of wind, and the distant sound of the L.A. River trickling past its concrete banks. I rode past women in pastels and wicker hats watering lawns lackadaisically with their garden hoses, stray dogs wandering out of alleys, tongues flapping out, spooked kids on trikes and postmen whistling country & western. I wove my way towards the stadium, taking my time. Making my presence known on certain four-lane streets where I'd find old men plucking the strings of banjos and familiar bandanna'd ladies smoking cigarettes in doorways. Becoming invisible in forgotten paths: the empty space between the backyards of two blocks-- a makeshift alley formed out of wicker fences and overhanging trees, with free peaches waiting in the cool grass-- cobblestone walkways laid out in gentrified neighborhoods, shopping center loading docks elsewhere. I stopped at my usual donut shop and picked up two glazeds with a small carton of milk. The inside of that place was a dirty pink and a vibrant yellow, and the customers never looked at each other, like they wished they didn't ever have to cross paths. I ate my breakfast outside on one of the tables they had set up: stained white plastic from a decade of rushed breakfasts and watered-down coffee. I was the only customer outside at that time of morning. From someone's open upstairs window the sound of Getz/Gilberto was seeping out onto the street— “Corcovado.”

I got to the stadium by 10:30, locked up my bike, and walked evenly into the track. It was red, synthetic, and empty. There were some kids in the bleachers, high school kids playing hooky, and I took a sip of cold, metallic water from the fountain. Eight laps on that semi-cloudy morning: my shoes hitting the ground over and over in an indistinct thwap, the gears of an autonomous meter unknowingly rotating. The trees outside the track made a satisfying rustle every time a gust of wind interfered with their languor. By 11:22, the strength of the sun had reached that mid-day plateau, and I retreated to a ground-level bench. Stretched out, laid down, I stared up for who knows how long, watching the clouds slowly passing me by. In my peripheral vision, I could see an interested bluebird cautiously approach, cocking his head before fluttering away. I closed my eyes for a time.

"Are you asleep?" he whispered, his familiar voice. "Nope," I said, my eyelids shut. I felt a swift change in the air as he leaned down for a kiss. His lips were cool and soft, and I said, "Your mouth tastes like mango... and pineapple." I opened my eyes and he smiled at me. "It's a new soft drink," he said. I looked up at his face, shielding me from the sun. I touched his hair. "What do you want to do today?"