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C-zine-5

words of hatred; Call

That race

Now I pass the call to give life to Czine5, you know how it works: send in their text, illustrations, photos design (if any of you can help us I would appreciate very) short stories, poetry, multimedia, websites, book reviews, essays ... any word that comes to mind. The main theme is hatred and violence, but if they have material from other areas, other issues, go ahead, they find space. (Cocainazine@gmail.com - mekagoen_dios@yahoo.com.mx)

So far I have received a couple of collaborations, I hope this edition of the zine reaches 50-60 pages. Ideally receive texts later than July 18. A new band remind you that the texts should be sent preferably in Word, with your name, mail and a small sketch of the author (2 or 3 lines). The illustrations, photos or any other material, should also include sketch or mail contact. I remind you that the issue of the fanzine can take months, but it leaves, leaves. Publish it.

is essential to spread the word, but for now the collaborations of Cocaine zine from Germany, Mexico, Spain, England, Chile, Argentina, Colombia and Venezuela. If you can, linkeenlo in blogs, myspace, twitter, facebook, etc ...: www.cocainazine.blogspot.com, the zine run and was run on the web.

take this opportunity to say that our literary burst reaches the 5, 000 downloads. Armemos the Czine5, for the sheer pleasure of publishing fucking stupid dirty realism zine.

Va, a hug to everyone.

israel

pd. I attached some pictures for hanging in their blogs.

www.cocainazine.blogspot.com

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insomnia

And if Latin America no longer exists? If you were a mirage, the obsession of a few politicians, an illusion, an ideal footprint extinct, a trap, a hole, a ghost or a zombie, a lie, just a dream? What if you suddenly discover that instead of a routine health examination, Latin America require an autopsy? And if Latin America was only to put it dramatically, an unburied corpse?

The sudden disappearance of the typical Latin American dictator resulted in the simultaneous retirement of the typical Latin American guerrilla [...] the fall of authoritarian regimes became obsolete revolutionary struggles and those who survived had to take off their masks, hang their coats, cornering their superpowers and reinvent themselves as ordinary citizens.


Unlike the realism of the past, narco's novel, does not support moral judgments, does not intend to preach to anyone and just collecting a critical tool, but as the authors strive to recreate millimeter speech and customs of its actors, their lives wild and horrible deaths, has ended up becoming the only remnant of social criticism of our time ...

As the drug-related violence began playing in several countries, its writers were quick to incorporate it into their texts, first as a backdrop and then as the epicenter of action. In a bland and aseptic era, dominated by mistrust of politics, these powerful forces outside the law took on a role: poor teenagers, recruited by the mafia to become professional murderers, beautiful young women used as currency; gunmen faced no other reason than the existential void, heroes and villains pathetic, not even easy to distinguish from each other; a universe dominated by danger, unpredictability and death clumsy and poorly paid police, always sold to the highest bidder, and of course a few bosses converted multimillionaires who own private armies and estates ...

If anything Latin American literature has not disappeared entirely, due to the persistence of this social scourge that has become in its new-and perhaps only-brand. A formula = Magical Realism in Latin America today is opposed Latin American narco = Novel.


* Jorge Volpi. Insomnia Bolivar. Mexico: Discussion. 2009. 259 p.

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Bolivar Cultural journalism at the time of the globaphobia


"What puzzles me a little is that bad maybe Carlos Rentería thinks a countercultural magazine should not be sold in Sanborn-Fadanelli and apparently thinks so when he says:" Our distribution [is Mold concerns ] is useless, precarious, accidental, but I prefer to be in a fucking Sanborns "- but in the libraries of the State, such as network Educal Books and Art. Accordingly, a magazine like ours [Replicator], produced with our money and our effort, should not tarnish, to show off shamelessly in detestable Sanborns, the virginal purity of the counter-anything that's in the Digital Age of rampant globalization. But, yes, editors should ask for (and to require sombrerazos, as some do) CONACULTA grants and subsidies (after scholarships are up for the holes Fonca fonqui, H. Yepez dixit) and perhaps dare negotiate humble exchanges with bookstores, restaurants, bars and small businesses. "

" I am sure that the evil Carlos plays with me. Everyone knows that your magazine [ Generation], from which no one doubts his counterculture lineage has survived a lifetime event by the State and also boasts of not paying contributions. It's just not a business, says Carlos rogue, as if to clarify: a treacherous and dirty business. " And how do I say that Replicante think it is? Or rather, it wants to be. As are businesses that Carlos buy alcohol, food, clothing, shoes, medicines, books, CDs, appliances, gifts for him, his family. And alcohol. And as the businesses that buy the paper for your magazine and the printing and binding. Because I know, no free lunch in this world (or CONACULTA), and if we can pay to the many writers, illustrators, designers working with Replicant going to do, even if modestly, but not want-and for that we are looking for the damn advertising. (Do not know why the gods, and officials are smiling every time you mention the word "counterculture."

* Rogelio Villarreal. cultural journalism in the time of the globaphobia. Mexico: Ediciones no name. 2006. 107 p.

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After dark


"A motorcycle stops outside the hotel entrance Alphaville. A large late-model Honda. The man driving a helmet that covers the face. Leave the engine running, as if to be ready to escape in case anything happens. Tight black leather jacket and jeans. High boots. Gloves. The man takes off his helmet and left on the fuel tank. After looking around air cautious, takes off the glove of one hand and pulls out a mobile phone pocket. Press a number. He is a man in his thirties. But brown ponytail. Broad forehead, sunken cheeks, sharp look. Maintains a brief conversation. The man hangs up the phone and saved. You put the glove, wait ... take the case, puts, calls the prostitute with a gesture and it is mounted on the bike. The woman grasped with both hands. He turns, looks at Mary, look at Kaoru. You are about to say something, but best serves his automatic pistol. Give a strong pull of hands, full throttle, it goes. The test tube noise echoes majestically in the streets, late at night. "

* Haruki Murakami. After dark. Spain: Tusquets. 2008. 248 p.