This is Japanese Baseball for

March 2010.
Kells
Dutch
Guatemala
Friday Night Lights
Some Yiddish
Depardieu
States
&
Publishing

www.japanesebaseball.us
Japanese Baseball
Jack is musician, writer, food
enthusiast, and entrepreneur. He lives
in Los Angeles with his appetite.
jack@jackdolgen.com
Jacob Raphael Mazin was the
proprietor of Mazin & Co. Ltd., in
London. He is presumed to be very
deceased.
Born in El Paso, TX in 1982, Carlos
has been listening to pop R&B for
over 28 years.
carlosrosalessilva@gmail.com
Japanese Baseball is a general interest zine founded in 2010.
This in itself means a variety of things (some known, some unknown), all of which will hopefully become more apparent as time passes. In
the meantime, some sources of influence can be found at:
japanesebaseball.us/tagged/influence
Founded by Michael Wachs
michael@japanesebaseball.us
twitter.com/japbaseball
Become a fan on Facebook, too.
MADE IN AUSTIN, TEXAS, AMERICA
Ricky Federico is a graduate of
Northeastern University. He
commutes between his home in
Chicago and Dillon, Texas.
rickyfederico@yahoo.com
Keith Poulson was raised in the
Catholic Church so now he can't
order off Chili's Guiltless Grill Menu.
He lives in New York City. You
can email him but, fair warning,
he'll probably report it as spam.
kpoulson@gmail.com
Matt Sorrell had his bike stolen
recently. Let him know if you see it.
It's mostly black.
mattsorrell@gmail.com
Ben Kammerle should be settling back
in New York and reclaim a career
in the music business but has chosen
to continuing traveling instead.
He is currently seeking out unique
cultures and interesting
experiences in Central America.
benkammerle@gmail.com
Timothy Willis Sanders (b.1980)
is a writer in Austin, TX. His work
has appeared in Nano Fiction. He is
currently an editorial assistant and
blogger at American Short Fiction.
willis.dyer@gmail.com
Mimi Zeiger founded loud paper,
an architecture zine and now blog,
in 1997. A Brooklyn-based freelance
writer, she is obsessed with finding the
perfect cup of coffee.
mimi@loudpapermag.com
 February 2010

That's not the way the world really

works anymore. We're an empire now,
and when we act, we create our own
reality. And while you're studying that
reality—judiciously, as you will—we'll
act again, creating other new realities,
which you can study too, and that's how
things will sort out.
AIDE TO PRESIDENT BUSH
OCTOBER 2004

There’s no such thing as fact anymore,

only opinion. The closest thing we have
to fact is “common opinion”.
Everything is an opinion.
Kanye West
kanyewest.com/2010/03/02/
Japanese Baseball

japanesebaseball . us /444112936

You Have A Crush On Kells

by Timothy Willis Sanders
Illustration by Carlos Rosales-Silva

¶R. Kelly did the Tootsee Roll.
Adina Howard watched R.Kelly.
R. Kelly dipped and looked at
Adina Howard. Adina Howard
walked to R. Kelly.
“I like watching you Tootsee Roll,” said Adina
Howard, “Take me to that Kevin Bacon movie.”
She handed R. Kelly a folded napkin.
Later, R. Kelly got on the highway with
Michael Bivins. R. Kelly unfolded the napkin on
the steering wheel.
“Digits. Kevin Bacon movie,” said R. Kelly.
“Big ass chi-chis. Go for it,” said Michael
Bivins.
“Hate Kevin Bacon though,” said R. Kelly.
“Don’t know...she was with DMX. I think he’s in
jail.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. Maybe you have to watch out
for girls who make those kinds of choices.”
“No. Why is he in jail?”
“They found a gun in his car or something.”
“When does he get out?” said Michael
Bivins.
“I don’t know. I don’t really know him,” said
R. Kelly.
“Probably be a while,” said Michael Bivins,
“Big ass chi-chis.” Michael Bivins spread his
hands over his chest. R. Kelly laughed. They
exited the highway.
R. Kelly sat in the box office. He saw the
Mall Security Guard. R. Kelly flagged down the
Mall Security Guard. The Mall Security Guard
waddled over. R. Kelly thought, “You’re like 800
pounds. Your face...” He looked at the things on
the Mall Security Guard’s face.
“How long does someone go to jail for if he’s
caught with a gun?” said R. Kelly.
“Depends if the gun was stolen, or used in a
murder,” said the Mall Security Guard. R. Kelly
looked away. He thought, “Giant chi-chis.”
Aaliyah walked to the box office. R. Kelly met
her at the glass.
“Two for Titanic, 7:30 show,” said Aaliyah.
R. Kelly looked at Aaliyah’s body. Aaliyah
wore slacks and a low cut top. He looked at her
Banana Republic name tag.
“7:30. Are you bringing your boyfriend?”
said R. Kelly.
“No. My girlfriend Missy. I like boats. She has
a crush on Leonardo.”
February 2010
“And you have a crush on Kells.” R. Kelly
smiled and pointed to his name-tag. The name-
tag read KELLZ.
“No,” said Aaliyah. She took her tickets and
walked away. R. Kelly watched her walk away.
He thought, “Kevin Bacon movie. Used in a
murder.”
R. Kelly swept behind the popcorn machine.
Teddy Riley stacked popcorn buckets.
“I like Aaliyah,” said R. Kelly. “She works at
Banana Republic, dresses nice, watches movies
like Titanic...not the Kevin Bacon shit I’m seeing
Friday night.”
Teddy Riley sighed a little. He walked to the
store room without looking at R. Kelly.
“And she likes boats,” said R. Kelly.
“Boats?” said Teddy Riley from the store
room.
“Yeah, boats.”
“Wrong movie to see if she likes boats.”
“Yeah. Who says that though? I like boats.”
“Didn’t she go out with Keith Sweat?”
“Did she?”
Teddy Riley walked out of the store room.
He had five bags of Twizzlers. He said, “I don’t
know...” in a low voice. R. Kelly swept some
popcorn kernels into a pile. He swept the pile
into a dustpan.
Friday night. R. Kelly picked Adina Howard
up at 8:30. She wore a pink top and tall black
heels. Children stood at the movie theater
entrance. They pointed at Adina Howard’s chest
and laughed. R. Kelly thought, “Giant chi-chis.”
R. Kelly looked at Kevin Bacon. He thought,
“Jesus. I hate Kevin Bacon.” Adina Howard put
her tongue into R. Kelly’s mouth. He put his
hand on Adina Howard’s breast. He thought,
“Feels empty.” Adina Howard pushed her tongue
further into R. Kelly’s mouth. He thought, “I am
going to choke. I am going to die during a Kevin
Bacon movie.”
R. Kelly got in the car. He rubbed his jaw.
His jaw was sore from kissing Adina Howard. He
parked near Adina Howard’s apartment. Adina
Howard looked at R. Kelly. She looked at the
ignition.
“Do you want to come in?” said Adina
Howard.
“No,” said R. Kelly. He thought, “Aaliyah.”
“Not even for a little bit?” said Adina
Howard.
R. Kelly drove home. He thought, “ Banana
Republic.” He will talk to Keith Sweat tomorrow.
Japanese Baseball
“Uptown Girl” by Billy Joel came on the radio. R.
Kelly turned the volume knob right. He rubbed
his jaw.
R. Kelly saw Keith Sweat outside Foot Locker.
Keith Sweat was holding a job application.
“15% discount, if I get it,” said Keith Sweat.
“Tight,” said R. Kelly.
Keith Sweat and R. Kelly slapped hands.
They walked to the food court. R. Kelly looked
at the Starter logo on Keith Sweat’s Green Bay
pullover. He thought, “Tight.” They got 8-piece
nugget meals from Chik-Fil-A. Keith Sweat got
Polynesian sauce. R. Kelly got Honey Mustard.
“What’s up with Aaliyah?” said R. Kelly.
“She’s cool. I don’t know.”
“Don’t know what?”
“She’s alright. I kissed her once in the
Hallmark Store.”
Keith Sweat looked around. R. Kelly put a
waffle fry in his mouth. He thought, “They just
kissed. That’s all.” Keith Sweat took out the job
application.
“You got a pen?”
“No,” said R. Kelly, “good luck.”
R. Kelly made a peace sign. Keith Sweat
nodded. R Kelly threw away his Chick-Fil-A
bag.
R. Kelly sat in the box office. He watched
Aaliyah walk by. She looked at him. R. Kelly
smiled. She kept walking. R. Kelly pulled out a
spiral notebook. The spiral notebook had “Lyfe
Journal” drawn on the cover in graffiti letters. He
thought, “Aaliyah.”
He wrote two lines:
You remind me of my jeep
I want to ride it
R. Kelly thought, “A jeep is a good metaphor
for Aaliyah. I should write this on a card from the
Hallmark Store and send it to Banana Republic.”
R. Kelly imagined Aaliyah reading the card.
He imagined being on a boat with Aaliyah. The
phone rang.
“Heritage Plaza 3, this is Kells,” said R. Kelly.
He looked at the two lines.
"Kells?"
"Yeah."
"R. Kelly?"
"Yes?"
"It’s dark and hell is hot."
"I’m sorry?"
"You will be motherfucker."
R. Kelly hung up. He looked at the phone
lines. Line 1 was red. R. Kelly pressed Line 1.
Line 1 went clear. Line 2 blinked red. The phone
rang.
"Heritage Park 3, this is Teddy," said R.
Kelly.
"Do you know the latest time Titanic is
playing," said a lady.
R. Kelly told the lady 9:30. He hung up. Line
1 and Line 2 were clear. He heard the theater
doors open. People walked into the lobby. R.
Kelly closed his spiral notebook. He went into
the theater. He swept popcorn into the dustpan.
He picked up an empty box of Milk Duds. He
swept a Hot Tamale into the dustpan.
“Kells!” said Teddy Riley.
R. Kelly jumped. He saw Teddy Riley at the
door.
“Someone wants to talk to you,” said Teddy
Riley.
R. Kelly looked out the theater doors. R.
Kelly saw a man standing in the lobby. The man
had on a tank top, jeans, Timberland boots. The
man looked at R. Kelly. R. Kelly nodded at the
man. The man walked to R. Kelly.
“You R. Kelly?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m the brother you just got off the phone
with.”
“Oh...”
“I’m DMX.”
R. Kelly looked away.
“I didn’t know you was so young. I should’ve
known since you workin’ at a motherfuckin’
movie theater in the motherfuckin’ mall,”
said DMX. “No wonder Dina said nothing
happened…how old are you?”
R. Kelly looked away.
“Shit, I came ready to stomp some ass. But
nothing happened. Right?”
DMX looked at R. Kelly with an angry
expression. R. Kelly shook his head.
“Right. Cause I’d stomp your ass.”
DMX walked out of the lobby. R. Kelly
exhaled. Aaliyah walked by the box office. DMX
waved at Aaliyah. They talked. R. Kelly watched
DMX talk to Aaliyah. Aaliyah laughed and threw
back her hair.. JB
 February 2010

DU-TECH
Dutch Dooley, Owner
701 Sheridan Road
Winnetka, IL 60093

Dear Doyle,

How are you? I hope everything is well in New York. Your mother and I have
had plenty of
snow here in Chicago! I just wanted to drop a note and catch up. I hope things
have calmed
down on Wall Street. I’m just glad it’s a new year. Time to start over. On that
note, I wanted
to say sorry about the time I told you to go “f yourself and blow some coke
out of a call girl’s
rear-end.” I was definitely over-served that Fourth of July. While we’re on
the topic of drink-
ing, I’d also like to apologize for last Christmas when I called white wine “fag
juice.” Maybe
I had one too many glasses of “Barley Butt Booze”. I’m kidding, beer’s for
men and always
will be.

Believe me, this is as hard to write, as I’m sure it is to hear. That reminds me,
I’d also like
to apologize for telling you to take the dicks out of your ear when you wouldn’t
listen to me
about Obama’s plan to have death soldiers. A simple misunderstanding. I think
we’re all a
little smarter after that little discussion. Remind me not to drink and debate.
And I want to
apologize for the time I punched in the face when you told me lottery tickets
were nothing
more than a poor tax.

Now that we’ve made amends, I need to ask you for a favor. You know how
tough times are.
Of course you do, hell, that’s your job. Side note, your mother and I getting
ready to retire.
Hopefully soon. But we’re not sure how that’s going to work. Let’s talk about
it over Memo-
rial Day weekend.

Love,

Dad

japanesebaseball . us /440272894
by Matt Sorrell
Japanese Baseball

japanesebaseball . us /444116029

Guatemala Beach Living

by Ben Kammerle

It was a typical heatless start to another day
in my house in Quetzaltenango, Guatemala the
morning I left for the warmer coastal town of
Champerico. To make the most out of my daytrip
I embarked directly after my traditional breakfast
of over-fried and under seasoned eggs. I was at
the bus station by eight o’clock. The station
had nothing more than lines of old American
Blue Bird school buses painted brightly parked
behind an open-air market. Hectic buying,
selling and noise included, this station is typical
of most Central American stations. I was
hoarded immediately onto a bus headed toward
the Pacific Coast. We departed shortly after the
bus had filled enough for the driver to make it
worth the trip. I took immediate comfort in this

specific bus because it had a flat screen television
mounted above the driver—an indication that
the owner had enough money put into this aging
bus to ensure its continual functionality. I took
additional relief in an older man whom was
sitting behind me gripping a club the size of his
leg. I imagined that if anything were to go awry
during the ride, he would have my back.
Two hours in and about halfway there, the
bus pulled into Retalhuleu. As the bus parked
alongside a market and all the passengers got off,
I luckily grabbed the driver as he was exiting to
clear up my confusion. It seems that I was the
lone person continuing onto the beach on a
Tuesday morning and he was return to continue
on after snacking while the bus filled up again.
The morning was growing increasingly hotter as
I waited for the bus to load. After half an hour,
we were on our way again headed through the
banana farms toward the ocean, as I noticed that
I was again the only foreigner on this second leg
of the trip.
The bus ripped into a sleeping beach town
consisting of a few streets with minor foot,
bike and tuk-tuk traffic. We had arrived. After
seeing the bulk of the town approaching, we
rolled to a stop on a side street and again I was
the last remaining passenger as the locals had
called out their stops and departed along the
way. The driver pointed me in the direction of
the beach, only saying, “playa,” as I thanked him
and finally got off myself. I walked, following his
suggestion, but did not see anything reminiscent
of beaches I was familiar with—flocks of people
at built-up tourist destinations. Walking closer,
I found a dirt road lined with outdoor shack
restaurants that fronted onto the sand of the
beach. I stripped off my clothes and unsheathed
my bathing suit. Shoving my jeans into my
backpack and removing my shoes, I headed
for the water. This brief march lasted but only
a minute before noticing the burning hot sand
and running in agony to the shade of an abandon
lifeguard tower where I quickly put on my shoes
before continuing on. I set up near the water
fifty meters from the handful of local groups
that seemed to be enjoying their day at the
beach, yelling and swimming in combinations
of swimwear and sweat suits, which passes for
proper beach attire in Guatemala.
I had set up my towel and organized the area
around me and commenced relaxing, hopping in
and out of the water for a swim to soothe the heat
I would develop while reading or studying. This
cycle continued for over an hour before I noticed
February 2010
GUATEMALA
Big Mac Index:
$2.20
Commercial Service Imports:
$1.423 billion
Assets owned by Wal-Mart Stores:
Wal-Mart Central America (formerly
Central American Retail Holding
Company (CARHCO)), La Fragua,
Dispensa Familiar (78), Supertiendas Paiz
(28, Hiper Paiz (6), Maxi Bodegas (6),
Club Co. (1)
Aid as % of GDP:
1.4%
Number of micro, small and
medium enterprises:
173,699
SOURCE:
NationMaster.com
three men sauntering up from down the beach.
Thinking nothing of it, I continued reading until
I noticed they were coming toward me quickly.
The three of them had approached, trapping me,
yelling phrases beyond my level of Spanish. It
was not until I noticed the one in front of me
had a slingshot extended back that I understood
that I was being held up. In that rapid moment,
I negated the fact that a slingshot is actually
a weapon or that the men were that large and
elected to do the opposite of what I’ve ever heard
and resist as they went to grab my backpack. In
hindsight, this was not the best decision. The
bag contained nothing more than my Spanish
study books, clothes and some snacks. I tried
to make this fact clear to them as they all went
for the contents but it was futile. I held on to the
bag with one hand and fighting them off with
the other. The slingshot was released, firing its
unknown contents directly into my bare side.
Before I could feel the pain from this shot the
other two jumped on me in an attempt to loosen
the bag from my grasp. As we rolled in the sand,
I received constant blows to my face, head and
torso. Heightened adrenaline gave me a feeling
of invincibility at the time as I continued to ward
of the attackers as they gripped me by the neck,
unloading on my one hundred thirty-five pound
body. This did not last more than two nor three
minutes when my better judgment triumphed
and I realized I was fighting a losing battled. I
decided to cut my losses and loosen my grip,
awarding them my bag.
There was nothing more I could do as I
Japanese Baseball
remained in the sand defeated and watched the
assailants make their escape down the beach.
As they ran, they began to pilfer through my
bag, discarding unwanted objects. Finally, a
hundred meters down, they dropped the bag and
most of its contents and continue their escape.
Shamefully, I walked down, covered in sand,
to collect my effects. I reclaimed my bag and
started picking up everything thrown out of it on
my walk back to my remaining items left strewed
about where I was once peacefully set up. I was
nearly back when a wave swelled up, soaking my
book, towel and sweatshirt and carrying away
my shoes, taking them afloat in the ocean like
little boats. I chased them down and grabbed
them just as another wave was about to take
them further out.
Evaluating the events that had just occurred
and what was missing, I was surprised to find
most of my belongings remained. The only absent
object was my two-dollar knife that I had stored
away in the front pocket of my bag. I sat there
trying to comprehend what had just happened
as I brushed off the sand covering myself and
everything I had left before I attempted to pack
up.
While attempting to reclaim some sort of
dignity, I looked over to see three men walking
towards me in a spread out single file line. As
they closed in, I saw two heavy-set middle-aged
men soaked to the bone wearing swim trunks
and collared short-sleeve shirts and a younger
athletic looking man in tow. They first two
immediately identified themselves as Catholic
priests through their gold-crowned teeth and
wide smiles, checking to see if I was all right
since they had seen the incident from afar. At
that point I was weary to trust anyone so I
tried to be brief with my explanation and be on
my way. In what little criminal terminology I
knew in Spanish, I explained the event and they
seemed to understand. I could tell quickly that
they were genuinely concerned, which relaxed
my elevated level of fear. After my explanation
and conclusion that I was not harmed much by
the ordeal they offered a prayer on my behalf.
I was mystified at this request, not being a
religious person and certainly not Catholic. I
was intrigued and figured I should take whatever
blessing I was offered at that point. As the three
holy men surrounded me, I was reminded of
my early encounter. I quickly changed my
deliberation once they begin prayer for my
strong heart and mind.
Upon completion of their prayers and
confirmation that I was in fact unharmed they
were on their way and I continued to pack and
move towards the rest of the beachgoers to ward
off any return attacks. While walking I was
stopped again by one of the priests and invited
to join them at the restaurant shack where their
car was parked. Hungry and in need of friendly
faces, I accompanied them to the restaurant
where I was able to clean myself up and organize
my belongings. As I approached the table after
putting myself back together, I noticed that they
had a frosty Coca-Cola already waiting for me.
We sat there and drank our sodas, discussing
their missionary work in the region, the bible and
a bit about my life history and religious views.
Although religion is something I try to avoid
discussing when possible, especially with priests,
it was a pleasant meeting, sitting at that plastic
table under the palm thatched roof. They were
forced to continue on so we said our goodbyes
and hugged. Before I knew it they were out of
site and I was alone once again.
Cautious that the assailants were coming
back and hungry, I remained at the restaurant.
I hadn’t eaten since breakfast and original lunch
timing thwarted by the day’s events. I sat alone
and ate a impressive meal consisting of a whole
fried fish, soup, fries and a salad while searching
through my Spanish dictionary looking for any
words that would help me to best explain later
what had happened to me during my beach
getaway. I paid my bill with the money I kept
securely in my bathing suit pocket and heading
for the bus.
While I walked I was examining everyone
around on that brief journey. I boarded the first
bus I saw knowing that it would not continue on
to my final destination but not caring of any hectic
transfer through bustling markets I would have
to endure. At that point, it was of no concern as
long as I was able to make it out of Champerico.
While I sat on the bus waiting for it to depart, I
was eyeing each person who boarded, suspicious
of everyone. As the bus engine revved up I felt
as if I was in the clear with a seat all to myself
to boot. No sooner did a woman entered with a
magnificent plume peaking from inside her bag.
I wondered how and where she had purchased
such beautiful feathers as she walked closer to
me. Then I realized where I was as she sat next
to revealing that she was actually carrying a
live rooster in her handbag. The bus departed
and as I began to lose sight of the beach town;
the chicken began to defecate which it would
continue to do the rest of the ride. JB
 February 2010

japanesebaseball . us /444117305

El Fuego
by Ricky Federico & Michael Wachs

This is a phone conversation that took place
in the aftermath of the Friday Night Lights season
4 finale. If you have not seen the episodes until
that point, this conversation will both make no
sense and be riddled with spoilers.
It is also riddled with giggling on account of
Michael and grown men saying "like" way too
much. Oh, it's also 38 minutes long.
Nevertheless, we hope you enjoy. Listen
online. JB
Japanese Baseball

japanesebaseball . us /444118418
by Jacob Raphael Mazin
 February 2010

from the Elementary manual of the Yiddish language with exercises & conversations (1909)
Japanese Baseball

japanesebaseball . us /444128449

Black Leather Jacket

by Keith Poulson

Last Monday morning, I woke up at in years, I ended up tuning in to Live with

around 8am with a goal in my mind and a
spark in my heart. It was time. After a week
of fiddle-faddlin’, lolly gagglin’, and zzz catchin’,
the time had come for me to find my first job in
my new home, New York City. Unfortunately, I
ended up watching about 6 hours of television
instead. I am still unemployed.
During this TV-watching session, my longest
Regis and Kelly, a morning talk show hosted
by morning talk show hosts Regis and Kelly.
The first guest was actor/writer/deep thinker
Ethan Hawke. Hawke was born in Austin, TX,
where I lived for over 8 years, so I can totally
get down with the Hawke-man. The interview
went smooth, although the hosts didn’t ask him
to sing a Violent Femmes song on-air, which I

considered a missed opportunity. There was a
commercial break, and then the second guest
came out. It was two-time Olympic redhead
Shaun White, fresh off the slopes with his new
gold medal dangling from his neck. The medal
was not the only interesting fashion choice made
by the Ginger Air on this appearance though.
In fact, I have no idea what was even said in the
short Q&A, because I couldn’t take my eyes
and mind off the fact that the Flying Tomato
was laughing and politely answering the hosts’
questions while wearing a pretty tough looking
black leather jacket. And he was pulling it off.
The black leather jacket is such an iconic
fashion piece, largely because it has been used
by so many different groups. Motorcyclists,
pilots, cops, punks, metalheads, Nazis, the
Black Panthers, and these kids that smoked
weed in my high school’s gym bathroom. And
in pop culture, there are some obvious key
references that spring to mind: whether it’s
rebellious Marlon Brando in The Wild One or
the loveable greasers like Arthur Fonzarelli and
half the cast of Grease. BLJs have been worn by
tough cyborgs (T2: Judgment Day), awesomely
flamboyant homosexuals (Cruising, that fake
cop from The Village People, Top Gun), and by
men that were perhaps just a little bit too pretty
and needed a touch of the tough (Eddie and the
Cruisers, Rumble Fish, last week’s episode of Live
with Regis and Kelly). Countless heroes and
February 2010
villains have taken on the duty of wearing the
jacket and making it mean something, but for
me, there is one person that pulls it off the best.
He is an actor with over 180 roles on his IMDB
page, and yet as far as I know has only shown up
leather-clad a couple times. That’s all he needed
to solidify it in my brain though. You may have
never seen him wearing one, so this might seem
like a confusing choice for the BLJ award. But,
for me, the black leather jacket’s ultimate icon is
Gerard Depardieu, specifically in the two French
films, Going Places and Loulou.
If I were to write a long thesis paper about
Depardieu, it would probably end with me
declaring him to be the second coming of Jesus
Christ (need proof? His last name, De/Par/Dieu
= Of/By/God. More proof? He has vineyards,
where they use water to make wine). I consider
him to be one of the greatest things France has
ever produced. But I didn’t always think that. I
doubt that too many non-Europeans do. Why?
Because his English-speaking movies are, for the
most part, not very good. The Last Holiday, 102
Dalmatians, My Father The Hero, Green Card,
The Man in the Iron Mask, CQ, and Babylon A.D.?
These are the kinds of movies that you don’t
want to watch even if they are on Hulu for free.
So, we’ve mostly gotten the wrong idea about the
man. Think about it this way. What if somebody
coming out of a forty year coma had to judge
Robert DeNiro as an actor, but could only watch
Japanese Baseball
movies he’s put out during 2000-2009. (Side
note/coincidence: Gerard Depardieu and Robert
DeNiro have apparently been good friends since
they worked on Bertolucci’s 1900 together in
the mid-70’s) (Other side note: My Father, The
Hero was a remake of a French film where he had
played the same character; sort of like Penelope
Cruz did with Abre Los Ojos/Vanilla Sky, or Jean
Reno did with Just Visiting/Les Visiteurs).
Depardieu has been working almost
constantly in France. There has been at least
one movie or television program featuring him
released every year for the last forty years. He
is THE French superstar and was, and possibly
still is, their highest paid actor per film. He has
been nominated for an Oscar for best actor in
Cyrano de Bergerac and he’s won several of the
top European acting awards over the years. He
has worked with some of the great directors;
Barbet Schroeder, Francois Truffaut, Bertrand
Blier (7 times, including Going Places), Serge
Gainsbourg, Bernardo Bertolucci, Alain Resnais,
Maurice Pialat (Loulou), Andrzej Wajda, Ridley
Scott, Norman Jewison, Kenneth Branagh, and
Claude Chabrol have all used him in their films.
He has directed films himself, including the short
film in Paris, je t’aime with Gena Rowlands and
Ben Gazzara. Not bad for a poor, troublemaker
GERARD DEPARDIEU FILMS SLATED FOR RELEASE IN 2010 & 2011
La tête en friche, Potiche, Une femme d'affaires, Vivaldi, The Job, Monet, la lumière
from Central France.
Depardieu was born in Chateauroux. The
youngest of six, he learned at an early age that
his mother had unsuccessfully tried to abort
him with knitting needles. By age thirteen,
he had already dropped out of school and
hitchhiked across Europe on an informal tour
funded primarily by the profits of stolen cars
and assorted black-market products. Depardieu
would likely have continued in his juvenile
delinquency were it not for a friend who was
attending drama school in Paris. Intrigued,
Depardieu enrolled at the Theatre National
Populaire, where he studied his trade alongside
Patrick Dewaere and Miou-Miou. These actors
would later go on to be his co-stars in shorts and
feature films, including Going Places. After the
release of that film, he began getting roles with
alarming frequency, working alongside some
of the most famous French actors, and earning
recognition for being able to keep up with them.
He is willing to play a wide range of characters,
from the grotesque to the kind, always bringing a
unique sensibility into it.
Also, of relevance, he’s a pretty insane looking
man.
Gerard Depardieu, like a black, leather jacket,
seems to work best when seen in bars, covered in

dirt, or in the midst of a fist fight. His head is
enormous, his body is thick and he’s got a face
shaped like a giant pitbull’s skull. His nose is so
big, that he must have taken on the role of Cyrano
de Bergerac because he needed some kind of
perspective consideration. But he’s captivating
and Leonard Maltin (or perhaps it was John
Landis) once even called him “filmdom’s most
ungainly sex symbol.” There is a mixture of
brutality, intelligence, softness and stupidity that
makes for something extraordinary.
In the two films I’m highlighting, Depardieu
doesn’t wear the jacket to be part of larger group.
He doesn’t need to it to look tough. He doesn’t
seem too concerned with being cool, so much
as just getting laid. He’s a criminal in both
movies. He drinks. He can be violent. He can
be uncaring. He can come across as sort of an
idiot. And yet you care about him, you like him,
almost inexplicably. You’re just as confused by
your attraction to him as the other characters in
the films. I’ve seen about 20 Depardieu films,
but it’s Going Places and Loulou that really made
me take notice. And while I’m not going to
use the remaining bit of this essay as a forum
to review or critique the two films or even give
a general summary, I will say this: They are
two of my favorite French films. Both feature
blanche, Le grimoire d'Arkandias (rumored), L'aviseur (rumored), Astérix chez les Bret-
ons, Veel üks croissant (rumored), Voici le temps des assassins (rumored), Small World
February 2010
great performances by Depardieu and Isabelle
Huppert. Both deal with sex, relationships,
violence and humor in ways I hadn’t seen before.
And, most importantly, both feature Gerard
Depardieu looking awesome, iconic in my mind,
in a BLJ.
On February 19, 2010, the Berlin
International Film Festival hosted the first
of several screenings of a new movie starring
Depardieu entitled Mammuth. I had seen this
title listed as an upcoming film on his IMDB
page, but I had been having a hard time finding
much out about the film. Two days ago, a movie
news website posted some clips from the film,
and a brief summary of the plot. In the clips,
several scenes show Gerard, fat with long stringy
hair, looking a big like Mickey Rourke in The
Wrestler. This comparison is heightened in the
second clip, as G.D. argues with a man at a deli
counter for not taking pride in his job, cutting
ham. It seems funny and sad and I want to see
it. Then the video cuts to a different scene. In it,
our protagonist, Gerard Depardieu, walks down
a desolate road. He is fat. He is beaten down.
He is old. He is wearing a BLACK. LEATHER.
JACKET. It’s been over 35 years since Going
Places came out and he’s still the man for the job.
JB
Japanese Baseball

japanesebaseball . us /444132018

Afflictions in Areas
by Jack Dolgen

Attacked in Alabama Nomadic in Nebraska

Altered in Alaska Nervous in Nevada
Arraigned in Arkansas Neurotic in New Hampshire
Assassinated in Arizona Narcotic in New Jersey
Nihilistic in New Mexico
Cut in California Noosed in New York
Cropped in Colorado Nullified in North Carolina
Canned in Connecticut Normalized in North Dakota

Defaced in Delaware Orphaned in Ohio

Filleted in Florida Ostracized in Oklahoma
Grilled in Georgia Oppressed in Oregon
Honeyed in Hawaii Pitied in Pennsylvania
Rued in Rhode Island
Idolized in Idaho Smacked in South Carolina
Investigated in Illinois Stripped in South Dakota
Interviewed in Indiana Torn in Tennessee
Isolated in Iowa Trashed in Texas
Euthanized Utah
Corralled in Kansas
Curtailed in Kentucky Violated in Vermont
Lobotomized in Louisiana Vindicated in Virginia
Washed in Washington
Marked in Maine Weighed in West Virginia
Married in Maryland Watered in Wisconsin
Misplaced in Massachusetts Wilted in Wyoming
Missed in Michigan
Manic in Minnesota
Mistaken in Mississippi
Murdered in Missouri
Mourned in Montana
 February 2010

japanesebaseball . us /444134217

Blue Lobsters
by Mimi Zeiger

loud paper

Late 90s. Print was probably already dead
then. It had taken too many phone calls to
find a cheap offsetter. Indie bookstores feared
the big boxes cutting in on their Thirdspace.
Distributors, bowing to shelving and stocking
requirements laid down by the chain store, put
limits on the sizes of independent magazines.
(This was around the time Metropolis magazine
dropped from full tabloid to its current shelf-
friendly size.)
Still, I was blissed out on the print shop’s
Thomas Paine authenticity. I figured it’d gloss
my tracks with a meaning and texture not found
with rapid digital printing. The details: the smell
of ink, rich and bitter like coffee, the Berkeley
Co-op apron worn by the grizzled anarchist, the
cranky press he quietly turned, and his punk rock
partner’s punctilious manner. I can’t remember if
I printed 500 or 1,000 copies. Some sit in a box
in the basement. On my last visit home I opened
it up: A hundred ochre-covered pamphlets,
surprisingly un-yellowed a decade on.
And now? Print is dead, again. As publishing
empires collapse, the market bets on journalism’s
odds of survival. Consensus says books are a
lost cause. Are folks ready to cotton to Kindle?
Has twitter killed the blog, the book, and the
building? (I ask in a mere 83 characters.)
As go buildings, so go design magazines. This
past year saw shelter and trade titles stumble
and fold under the double deadweight of slow
building starts and curtailed ad revenue. A year
after Lehman’s collapse, missing consumer design
rag Domino is like missing cotton candy—a vague
remembrance of a cavity-inducing indulgence,
so sweet at the time.
Indeed, I have to stop myself from falling into
the vat of saccharine nostalgia that surrounds
the publishing in the grand scheme, architecture
publishing, and my own little niche of zinedom.
Staple fold reminiscences, no matter how open
hearted, tend to lead to a single polar standoff:
print versus digital. But dividing publishing into
two camps leaves us empty handed. Even the
Gray Lady, the New York Times, splits her time
between the two realms, pacifying those who
stand and read the paper on the subway and
those who glean their info online.
Japanese Baseball
Meanwhile a number small architecture
and art publications are sneaking into the space
between the two modes. They are dependent on
both mediums. They rely on social networks and
digital technologies for form and content, but
ultimately these wee volumes find their way into
readers’ hands. For Gary Fogelson, Phil Lubliner
and Soner Ön, the Brooklyn-based trio who
makes up The Holster, publishing is performative.
It calls attention to the act of making, even if
that act is really just stapling some laser printed
sheets. The collective commissioned sixteen
artist to create PDFs, then set up their print-
on-demand imprint, Demand & Supply, at zine
expos and book fairs. Armed with laptop and
printer, they publish in real time, straddling the
gap between intimacy and automation.
Ephemera obsessions are de rigueur within
certain circles of the contemporary art world. In
2001, the darling Hamburger Eyes established
DIY publishing as the go-to format for photogs
wanting to capture the grit of everyday life.
And galleries/retailers like New York City’s
Printer Matter and LA newcomer Ooga Booga
curate short run editions into a kind of artistic
lifestyle. That architecture should eventually re-
embrace self-publishing after years of the book-
versus-blog discourse is welcome, if not entirely
unsurprising. The discipline is known to be a bit
tardy.
Within the field of architecture and ubiquitous
computing the Situated Technologies Pamphlet
Series was relatively early adopter print-on-
demand services, even as design students had
been using the technology for one-off books
for awhile. The publication is the outcome of
a discussion on the Institute for Distributed
Creativity (iDC) mailing list, which then grew
into a 2006 symposium at Urban Center and
Eyebeam in New York. Unlike the Supply &
Demand series, it uses the mainstream online
publisher lulu.com as its printer and distributor.
PDFs are available for free on the Situated
Technologies website, making the decision to
read online or in hard copy a personal choice.
I am tempted to call these new publications
“zombies,” following Todd Gannon’s assessment
(Log, Fall 2008) of Archigram and other
sixties practitioners unbuilt work that persists
in its influence after facing a critical death.
Especially since that groups’ publications
provide the emotional, if not intellectual or
formal, underpinning of today’s self-publishing
efforts. Or as he puts it in the essay, “Return of
the Living Dead: Archigram and Architecture’s
Monstrous Media:” “In nine and one-half
eponymous pamphlets released from 1961 to
1974, Archigram took advantage of the highly
reconfigurable space of the printed page to
manipulate forms, juxtapose elements, and
orchestrate architectural experiments impossible
in other media.”
But given that experiments in other media
could now be taken to define much of architectural
practice, I prefer to call these half-breeds
“mutants.” Living between paper and screen,
mutants are part of publishing’s evolution, even
if a specific characteristic proves too unwieldy to
pass on to the next generation. Some mutations
are sneaky. As is the loud paper broadsheet,
published as half issue, half catalogue for the
“A Few Zines” show that opened at Studio-X in
January 2009. Designer Chris Grimley used the
column width of a blog post to organize the page.
Without being explicit, the broadsheet triggers
digital references.
An iPhone is the mutant appendage needed
to read Standpunkte One. Aptly entitled This
Will _ This, the first issue features a single essay
by John Harwood and Jesse LeCavalier who
conceived the pamphlet with graphic designer
Guillaume Mojon. (Standpunkte Magazine itself
is out of Basel, Switzerland and edited by Reto
Geiser and Tilo Richter.) A shiny black cipher,
the publication is full of totemic black and white
graphics. Yet, a 2D bar code reader app brings
the pamphlet to life. Encryption is at the root of
this first issue. A scan of the cover graphics takes
you to www.thiswill-this.net. Where the editorial
statement reads: "You will not to be able to read
this, at least not all of it. This is fine with us." By
placing the phone a filter between the web and
the printed page, This Will _ This, frustrates the
act of reading, but still maintains the need for a
book object. It explores, as the editors write, "the
thresholds and overlaps between material and
immaterial media.”
It is impossible to state that mutant publishing
will bring traditional print media back from
death’s door. That economic model needs to
independently reassemble its DNA. (Then
again, it may reanimate quicker than we think.
Tina Brown’s online Daily Beast just announced
that it is teaming up with Perseus Books Group
to create rapid-print paperbacks.) But these
mutants—esoteric pamphlets operating at the
riff of “material and immaterial media”—show
dynamic signs of life and happily elude any
nostalgic impulse. JB
 February 2010

Top: Supply & Demand, Situated Technologies pamphlet.

Bottom: Situated Technologies pamphlet, Supply & Demand
Japanese Baseball

This Will _ This

You can do
something you
enjoy.

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