I f there was ever a week for punk rock, this is it. Australia is (still) on fire, Trump is trying to start World War III, and Schitt’s Creek Season Six is out but isn’t going to be available on Netflix for like, nine months.
Luckily, we are really good at (pussy) rioting here at this beautiful, gusty, bloody, glorious PULP magazine. And this week we’re got all of the tunes to get you raging.
We started the week off with Dacia Holliday’s monthly tarotscopes, which never fail to set a body right. These, which approach not only the new year, but the new decade, are no exception.
“The Disaster card is also known as the Tower in a more traditional deck, & there are some things you should be aware of when Disaster comes to play. First of all, no tower is eternal. A bunch of preschoolers taught me this lesson when I noticed that while they enjoyed building towers taller than themselves, what brought the most smiles & squeals of laughter was knocking that shit down.
At first I was like, “Huh?” But then I began to realize that they understood that there were a limited number of blocks, so if they wanted to build new towers, the old ones had to come down. There was also an undeniable joy when demolishing their towers.”
Josephine Sargent’s “Giving Birth Left Me With Lifelong Scars” was next in the week, and it really reps on the front of birthing as a truly punk rock experience.
In a fog, I walked out with my baby, not even taking a nappy bag. My temperature was over 40C (104F); the tremors came and went and my blood pressure was dangerously low. Immediately, I was admitted and wheeled back to the maternity ward for antibiotics. “You have an infection,” said the nurse. “We need to find out where it is.”
Breaking up our words for the week is Sebastian Bisbal (our in-house illustrator for PULP!), who created a comic about sex education (or lack thereof) based off of our ‘Between the Bills’ podcast episode, which tackles the fallout of bodily ignorance. Comics and multimedia really make PULP what it is, and this one is particularly stunning.
I also threw my hat into the ring of blood, guts, and glory with my piece
“In Praise of the Explicit”. This essay dives into the ways in which the censorship laws put into place by Boomer parents actually turned the lot of us into total pervs.
“And maybe that’s the effect, truly, of the explicit, the only part of this with any real longevity (after all, ‘parental advisory’, thank god, has a shelf life) — real, gritty, juicy imprint of understanding, even unconsciously, even as in a bright and crusty teenaged way, what was at stake in hearing brilliantly dirty lyrics and music as my mind was growing and expanding.
Not just the words, mind you (which I’ve always upheld as the greatest and most mighty), but the delivery of the words. Which is to say, units of sound that enact and experience of something, or, the real reason we love music — delivers a profound experience of art.”
Lastly, Kat Taylor’s “Silence in the Age of Enthusiastic Consent” is a harrowing and necessary look at the dating landscape of the #metoo era, and what, exactly, consent really means.
And then his hand crept past my collar bone and wrapped firmly around my throat.
I had a strange thought in that moment. That my neck was made of hollow bones. Bird bones. That they could snap cleanly beneath the flick of a stranger’s wrist. You didn’t ask me about this, I thought, unsure of how to say no, afraid of what his reaction might be.
As usual, I’ve made you an on-point playlist to enjoy with this week’s stories — and beyond.