Another Expozine. I’m genuinely alarmed by how quickly it rolled around. I thought time would slow down in the post-escape world, but (to me at least) it seems to fly by just as fast as when I was a clock-watcher.
It was a fun Expozine. Fairly disastrous in terms of sales (we only sold nineteen copies, which isn’t really enough) but a good time was had all the same.
Our neighbour was Rebecca Heartz who apropos of nothing asked me if I like Stewart Lee and The Chap: two of my favourite things in the world. What a hero. She makes and sells prints and postcards of cute/grotesque, often post-apocalyptic scenarios. Lots of bunnies with tentacles. Brilliant.
We were visited by V, who originally discovered us by googling “how to escape” or something. She moved to Montreal recently, quite possibly on the advice of New Escapologist Issue Three. “Are you Robert Wringham?” she said upon coming to the table, which always makes my ego inflate to bursting point and sends it whizzing off around the room.
Later, there was a chap, N, who said he’d been in hospital with a mushroom-induced psychosis when someone brought him his first copy of New Escapologist. To pay for his second, he popped outside and busked for twenty minutes: something that filled me with unpredictable glee.
Since he busks near to a farmer’s market and is friends with some of the traders, N also gave us a bag of fresh kale.
I was happy to meet Roxanne and her famous ballz. She recently moved from Montreal to Glasgow. When she emailed a few months ago, I’d assumed she knew I was a Glaswegian in Montreal and that she wanted to talk about that. But she had no idea and just wanted to talk about New Escapologist. We were in each other’s social orbits on both sides of the Atlantic and didn’t know it. She works in The Thirteenth Note, Glasgow friends, so be sure to go and annoy her, preferably by asking lots of questions about her massive, foreign ballz.
We were also visited by many local friends who we don’t see enough of. That’s the thing about Expozine: it’s a beacon to hipster layabouts. Watching so many familiar faces come bright-eyed through the doors is like something from The Tommyknockers.