1. Title of Magazine Issue #1 Released


    It exists!

    The first print issue of Title of Magazine is printed and will be haphazardly distributed in the next two weeks. Expect a redesign of this website as well in the coming weeks, shifting away from our blog origins to more of a support site and distribution hub for the more tangible incarnations of TITLE.

    WANT A COPY? Email us. TitleofMagazine -a-t- GMail  If you live in the NYC area, we can probably arrange some sort of hand-to-hand or improvised cache delivery method. If you’re elsewhere, I might ask for a buck via post or PayPal or something to cover shipping. If you see it around town, it should be available for free.

    WANT IT DIGITAL? Here’s a crappy PDF version. More suitable versions (PDF, MOBI, etc) coming soon, along with a HTML version for easy browsing.

    WANT TO PRINT IT YOURSELF? Awesome. Give me a minute and I’ll have it up with instructions on printing it out properly. Here’s the InDesign file if you’ve got CS6: TITLE1.indd Feel free to redistribute (non-commercially) as you see fit.

    GODDAMN IT, JUST GIVE ME THE BOARD GAME! Here you go. Awkwardly resized to US Letter for easy printing/barroom disposability.

  2. FU1K: Crescents, 772 Words

    Installment two in our short fiction series, Fiction Under 1000 Words.

    Printable PDF

    I find little crescents of her fingernails in the corner of the room. There’s two of them perched on the carpet, leaning against the molding like they were little animals, two legged beasts carved from flimsy ivory. She never painted her nails since we had the kid. I’m not looking for them, on my knees cleaning the edges of the living room, but I find them. She’s still here, in a way. The dust on the edges of the molding and on the rim of the light switch plate is probably 30 percent her skin cells, 30 percent mine. If a neutron bomb got dropped and we were all wiped out and archeological crews from a future civilization came through here studying, reconstituting the dead from what we touched, they’d vacuum up all the cells and grow a new her and me and Aidan right here again in this house. Would we remember each other?

    She’s somewhere, not far but not hanging around town either. Not that I’d run into her as that I haven’t left the house in god knows but I’d still know about it because I’m being checked on. Her friends, my friends, relatives from out of town happen to be just passing by on Saturday afternoons, heading to the mall that nobody goes to anymore. I feel less comforted than observed.

    Especially with her friends. Reconnaissance units Stacey and Jennifer. They come as a pair with some kind of decoy object, typically something suspect. Rabbit-eared plastic covers for the outlets. A home knit scarf delivered in early August. Jenn and Stacey, in and out my door ferrying 43 thrift store volumes of the Encyclopedia Britannica for Aidan. The kid is four.

    Last Wednesday they showed up with no-bake cookies as I was paying the sitter. “Vegan no-bake cookies,” Jenn noted. The visit’s intent was transparently investigative. Nostrils flared discreetly to check air quality. Furniture was sat on gingerly, inspected with hands and given a test bounce. At one point, I could of sworn I saw Stacey measuring Aidan’s dimensions with palm lengths.


    Read the rest of this entry »

  3. FU1K: Submarine, 659 words

    As promised, we’re diversifying our offerings to give you some short fiction, collected as Fiction Under 1000 words (FU1K).  As that I personally find reading a story off a screen to be lacking, we’ve got a specially formatted print version as a PDF for you to print out.  It’s adapted from the Pocketmod so it should fit nicely into your pocket and be ideal for reading on public transportation, no matter how crowded.  Print and fold ’em, leave ’em in public places, sneak them into friends’ jackets.

    print version

    Admission is five hundred yen, which I chop the last two zeroes off of to get dollars. I pay for both our tickets even though we never said this was a date. The attendant closes the door behind us silently and the rivets on our jeans click together as we sit down next to each other. When the ride slows near the top, my thumb is tracing the underside of her bra back underneath her shirt. A man comes on the intercom and says something I tune out and she translates: “He say we stop.” We stop moving. I slide my arm down and she moves closer.

    Before I moved to Japan, I spent my last month or so drinking in local bars and making a lot of calls from the payphone to lie to old friends and acquaintances. These were important last steps, the calls and the bars, because I figured I ought to make myself good and sick of where I’m from by overexposure and I just might need that last hit of barroom wood paneling, pointless gossip and dusty neon beer signs that are part of my DNA, for better or worse. Besides, there’s that whole theory of relativity where time moves differently in different spaces and at different speeds and while I live my life here a day in the future, back home they may be all aging terribly or enslaved by a race of superintelligent lizard men or something. Its important to establish a base line measurement of lies and hazy last memories to figure out the path you’ve taken once you return. If you return. I told several people I was on a submarine making a documentary on polar lichen so they shouldn’t expect any quick replies. Now I get letters from ex-lovers that read like:

    I think of how we could of been and what you mean to me while you’re so far away under the icy waters and I feel frozen like the lonely lichen and…

    The letters usually wrap up with something about Jesus, pot brownies or trying a new prescription on advice of an ad in a women’s magazine. These are the thoughts that stagger through my brainpan while I’m clinking glasses with salarymen to Health, Wealth and Stealth and still telling lies in bars and on phones and acting completely simian. I email back home from under a table:

    I’m talking to you from the future where there’s an electronic board that lists the date and hour of your death. I have a cell phone that looks like a ten year old’s idea of what cell phones are like in Japan. Its the size of a baby hamster and can tell the future if you type to it in Kanji. I eat bento for lunch that I buy from a man wearing a rubber horse’s head.

    This is the stuff of daily life, so far out of context that the only point of reference I can grasp is a dim idea of a slow, quiet apocalypse approaching behind the jumbled skyline like the flat grey clouds of a summer storm.

    On my wrist, my watch beeps and says in a tiny computer voice “Do you remember the nineties?” I look out from the top of the 8th largest ferris wheel in the world built on the top of a thirteen story building with my hand down the pants of a girl wearing a tshirt that reads “There is no now, only Couture”. There’s more lightbulbs flaring at me than visible stars in the sky. Through her hair I see fields of neon hustle for my shifting consumer whims. I think of the oil that lubes the gears of it all and the grim ugliness that will come when it runs out, the darkened grey buildings, the unfashionable desperation of hunger and the dust of stalled progress and I shift my hand down a few more centimeters to the places forbidden here on video.

  4. Title Manifesto 2010

    Yeah, like that.

    Before I get into things, I just want to say that we here at TITLE continue to be awed and flattered that you people are actually reading this, subscribing to it and following us on Twitter. A big thanks to the friends we’ve made along the way, all the folks who dig what we do, and every little thing that makes the little stat bar creep up, thus giving us a handy numerical value for our self-worth.

    But on to some talk about what’s coming down the pipe…

    What’s in a name?

    Yeah, it’s weird that we’re called Title of Magazine and there’s no magazine.  Got it.  The aim always was to find something that managed to not only be a magazine but also not to be a time-sucking, cash destroyer, puking ads and compromises all over the pavement.  A tricky thing, it turns out.  But that’s just the kind of challenge the engages sprightly young lads like ourselves.  Expect something touchable/foldable/disposable to manifest sometime this year… possibly even made out of paper.

    Sooner than that, watch for something a little more meaty, content-wise.  I’ve never believed that the 300 word blog post was the ceiling for compelling web delivered content and the field is still wide open for finding a way to make things not only less painful, but a joy to read off a screen or several screens.  Expect some longer pieces later this month dealing with boobs, balloons and Bono.

    Turning on the Art Pipe

    Additionally, we’ve been remiss in the half of our mandate that promised the half-formed, the unfinished, the raw materials of the creative process.  Beginning in February, we’ll begin showcasing short fiction, video shorts and audio experiments.  Potentially, we’ll also be adding some new voices to the site.

    Expect more in the way of words, pictures and sounds free for the taking and breaking with a renewed focus on resources for you creative types.  At the very least, we’ll have a few more woodcuts up next week.

    Nerd Patrol

    Last but not least, we’re going to HTML 5.  Bad news for the one guy who’s still reading us with IE 6, good news for everybody else, here in the brave new future.

    And what does 2009 look like in the rearview?  Here:

    Yeah, we’re into whales.  Dig it.

  5. Raw Materials: Venetian Renaissance Scans


    Click here for a gallery of ancient hand-cut fonts, illustrations and borders, all free and clear to alter and reuse.

    I found this book for a dollar at a garage sale and it looked too good to keep to myself.  Great for design projects that require a medieval touch.  Ten scans up currently, more on the way.  Angels, saints, branches, lions and giant fancy letters.

    Link to any projects you use these on in the comments.  Someone want to whip up a font?