Nose Ordinance

Your final descent into madness should really Be planned in advance.

After all, if it creeps upon you unexpectedly, it might go unnoticed--as madness oft goes unrealized by the self--and not be enjoyed as I feel descents into madness should be. 

The pressure is just too much, right? Since you’re on the brink of a psychological breakdown, why not divide your mental instabilities into a series of fun activities? Plan your itinerary, make a date of it, do a shit-ton of DMT, and just, quite literally, go nuts. Here are some ideas to get you started:

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The Katrina Deniers

Like most recent transplants to New Orleans, my only exposure to Hurricane Katrina was the horrific imagery portrayed by the national media. How can one forget the devastating damage brought upon the people and places of the lower Ninth Ward, the flooding and wind damage to the surrounding area, and the emotional impact of the storm throughout America and across the world?

I pose this question to anyone whose eyes were transfixed to their television throughout that terrible catastrophe and its aftermath: have you visited the lower Ninth Ward since that time of infamy? I have. I walked its streets, ventured to one of its gas stations, gave the man behind the counter a sheath of bills in exchange for a pack of cigarettes. And I took something from the experience. Which is this: Hurricane Katrina is the biggest conspiracy since the first moon landing.

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Pretend to buy something you can’t afford

Set your sights on a fancy car, or that high-rise condo or office building. Dress the part and convince the salesperson that you have the means, the wherewithal, and the desire, and that you are willing to be pampered before you make up your mind. Just before you sign the check, say you’re going to look at other options and walk away.

Enjoy all the fun of capitalism without the buyer’s remorse. The more money that’s on the line, the greater the adrenaline high; why should the wealthy have all the fun? The worst that can happen is they check your credit and turn you away. Don’t let rejection scare you; your mission is to get as close as possible to the monetary transaction without exchanging any actual money.

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How To wear SHUN

A dandy hipster dressed in bows and frills walks toward a crowded bar, his friends a few paces ahead, and sticking out from the back of his pants is a copy of SHUN Magazine. It occurs to me: why read SHUN when you can simply make it visible upon your person in order to fool others into thinking you read it?

What else screams “I’m hip to the underground and totally in the know” like wearing a copy of SHUN Magazine? But you know the next guy is just going to upstage you by wearing two copies of SHUN. And with the arrival of the latest issue, it is theoretically possible to have five entirely unique copies of SHUN Magazine sticking in and out of various articles of clothing.

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I see myself sitting at the bar,

just past the gaudy television displays, scrolling show names expired months ago and months from now.

I am having an out-of-body experience. I wish I could say that I’d never be caught dead inside Bamboulas, but I know I’ve been guilty of that crime on more than one occasion, so I can’t exactly say for certain whether it was me or not. I was pretty sure that I was standing across the street smoking a cigarette, but there I was: enjoying a beverage at the bar with a washboard that I don’t even own. Maybe I’d stolen it since last I saw myself. Was I a victim of quantum entanglement, or was it something more sinister? The friends I was with confirmed my suspicions. I have a doppelgänger.

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If Hipster is the popularization of counter-culture, Shun Magazine is the prime example of a product designed to never be cool, no matter how superior its intended audience believes themselves to be, and regardless of the counter-cultures it envelops.

Within its home-grade laser-printed pages are barely-constructed ideas of shaming an unapologetic public for even daring to suggest that a proper publication requires staples along its fold, lest its pages come undone into a scattered mess*. Perhaps Shun Magazine could better be described as a pamphlet, or a program for a theatrical failure, transpiring before your eyes: a story between a man who worships oblivion and a man who thinks that maybe oblivion isn’t such a good idea, neither being entirely interested in either idiom. How they’ve fooled anyone with half a brain to write for them is anyone’s guess, but probably follows a doctrine that even the worst readership is better than none at all.

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