You don’t need a mohawk to be a punk. It’s the DIY-ethos of creating stuff that’s real and raw, regardless of what’s in fashion, that matters. They might not resemble The Ramones, but volume eight is full of punks.
There’s an architect who believes that the classic Australian brick home – those short, red and orange boxes with neatly trimmed gardens – are a thing of beauty.
There’s a good old-fashioned heist, except this one’s exceptionally sweet, because it involves $20 million dollars of maple syrup.
There’s author and pop-philosopher Chuck Klosterman explaining how drugs can sometimes be good.
There are two guys who worked out how to take something as simple as salt and build a bench with it.
There are the people who eagerly wait for winter each year, when the cooler temperatures are just right, so they can head into their garages to start making their own salami.
There’s a new set of punctuation marks, created by inventive writers Nick Hornby, Judd Apatow, Peter Carey, Jon Ronson – and one very clever typographer.
It really is a magazine with a little bit of everything. (This is probably where a traditional exclamation point could have been applied.)