To me, Trish Kelly’s stories of youthful vixens falling willing victims to boring sugar-daddies, yearning for virile young things with pierced tongues, and moping around inadequate apartments in short bangs trailing sexual dissatisfaction like the smoke from a Camel Lite, are as competent and as dull as the work of Charles Bukowski, if Charles Bukowski was a girly-girl. So if you like that sort of thing, go for it. It’s not dumb; it’s just not my cup of tea. (Wendy Banks)
zine, #12, Trish Kelly, $4, 33-345 EBroadway, Vancouver, BC, V5T 1W5