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The North Yorker is wacko. For reals, this is some messed-up shit. And as a lecherous perv once said to me, “Daddy likes!” The zine features 48 solid pages of short stories, some with a decidedly realistic feel and others that are completely out of left field. A shining example of the latter is an untitled work about a TV set with an anus that has a nasty habit of befouling the family carpet. The North Yorker is seemingly the product of a hyperactive imagination run amok, and there’s enough crazed, vaguely psychotic creativity here to fill Centrepoint Mall. The only real complaint is the production value, which admittedly bites the big one. Our review copy of The North Yorker was a flimsy, dog-eared mess that looked like the product of a third grader and an errant turnkey (with all due respect to both). There’s a lot to be said for a zinester’s ability to self-publish using just a copier and box of staples, but, that said, a little more effort would be nice. Luckily, the stellar content The North Yorker provides makes up for these shortcomings. (Cameron Gordon)

Zine, Alain Mercieca, #1, $1 or PWYC, 48 pgs, 5246 Avenue De Gaspe, Montreal, QC, H2T 2A2,

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