Critical Accident Zone

Critical Accident Zone is a long, slim volume filled with morose ramblings on abandonment, lost souls, sex and love departed. It reeks of hangovers, cheap motels, and the dreadful, legendary walk of shame.

As soon as I saw the zine, my mind got stuck on the cover. A black on red damask pattern. So trendy. So in. So retro. It reminded me of a couch in a drug dealer’s house, years and years ago, when a guy I was dating took me on a late-night mission to a weird place where we met some VERY interesting people-the same kind of people who haunt Critical Accident Zone.

“Talked me into chemicals I would have rather not consumed,” the narrator tells us. “He isn’t gin but around him I loose the ability to think straight. Become so drunk and so naïve.”

Toys and lube litter the floor, cigarettes are lit and discarded … the ghost of Charles Bukowski haunts every line. I love it.

Critical Accident Zone is part one of three, and I anxiously await the next instalment in this series of “dramatic romantics.” (Andrée Lachapelle)

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