In Sydney, everyone runs. Actually everyone. We didn’t walk a block that first day without seeing someone running. There seemed to be several different classes of runners, and based on an often-observed sideways glance and plenty of strategic mid-block street crossing, it seemed that they didn’t interact very much. The top tier, decked in brightly-colored Lycra sports bras and almost-invisible headphones#, ran with a concentration and ferocity not often seen in what might be considered a fairly non-competitive, leisurely choice of exercise. They were, clearly, winning at running. The middle tier still sported their fair share of hip gear, although most of it was just outside the time-frame of the cutting edge, as well as showing signs of actual use. The final caste of the running system wore the unthinkable; regular bras, cargo shorts, even Walkmans with tapes playing inside of them. These were few and far between, but a pleasure to observe.

After wandering around the CBD a while, we stopped to put down our packs and get a sandwich. While eating, I counted nine different runners go bye; four businessman-types, two women, one depressingly overweight teenager, and two old men. The only person who passed by who was not running, in fact, was the man who delivered out sandwiches. On the way home, our packs heavy on our backs and so close to the couch promised as our bed, a man sprinted past, neon-green soles of his shoes flashing down the pavement. He turned and waved, and I stopped, waving back to the very man who had delivered us those sandwiches not hours before. In Sydney, everybody runs.

***

Rumpus original art by Lucas Adams.

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There was a paper American flag taped to the door, and a panel missing by the knob, and so when no one answered, we let ourselves in.

Fixed gear bikes lined the hallway and in the living room cigarette smoke settled on the thrift store couches. Three boys, not a colored piece of clothing between the lot of them, raised their beers at we entered.

“Hello!” they chimed together, the tallest standing up and introducing himself, Will (or Mackie) and the other two, Alex (or Moodie) and Gaz. We spent the afternoon in the living room, watching bad television with no sound and listening to bands with names I couldn’t pronounce. Writing covered the walls, from the large and illegible to the small and poetic, along with old student ID cards and various scraps of what could be called memorabilia, plastic necklaces and paper party hats, the occasional bra. Above the TV was a collection of VHS, mostly kids stuff and bad eighties romance, it balanced on the mantel in a precarious series of towers.

The situation was much as we had feared and, sitting in my tattered cargo pants and patchwork sweater, I began to fidget with the discomfort of being just not quite cool enough. We were, it seemed, in the hipster capital of the Southern hemisphere, a house called “The Ferg.”

As it got dark we yawned and gave in to the jet lag, much to the begrudging moans and shit-giving grins of the boys.

We were, it seemed, not cool enough at all; sleep was obviously for the weak of heart. Mackey showed us to a bedroom with a floor that, as far as I could feel with my feet, was made up entirely of old newspaper and white t-shirts. He turned back as he walked out the door.

“Oh, if there are, you know, noises in the night, don’t mind it too much…”

“Oh yeah, the possums!” Moodie shouted, suddenly appearing, a little drunk. “They’re harmless.”

“There are possums?”

“Oh yeah, a few. Two families, we think. One lives just up there” Moodie pointed to our ceiling, “And one above Daisy’s room.”

“Sometimes they meet in the middle, and it can be a bit loud…” said Mackie.

“They fight?”

“Or breed, it’s hard to tell. Anyway, sleep well.”

And they left, and we shucked our packs in the corner, and unrolled our sleeping bags and tried not to sink into the floor. As I sat down I imagine the particles of the apartment floating around me, smoke and ash and filthy party streamers, cheap noodles and box wine concocting into a mixture of air that, as I feel asleep, seemed to seep in through my skin.

***

Rumpus original art by Lucas Adams.

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New statistics (crunched by the Double X staff) show a gender imbalance in books considered by the NYT (and other elite publications), but the question of where to lay the blame of sexism remains unclear: is it the taste of the average American reader (gauged best by the average stack of books at Costco), the publishing industry, or the critics themselves that create the male majority in the world of literary criticism? Or are men, as they ever have, simply writing more books than women? Ruth Franklin explores the questions and more in her article, “Franzen Fallout.”

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Thrive encourages adults to not simply live life, but enjoy and explore it, offering “a chance to live better and participate more; to thrive instead of just survive.” Along with traditional resources like computers and resume help, Thrive provides chances at internships, apprenticeships, and even space for making art. It’s local, community based, and available for adults to change their day-to-day grind into something that grinds a little less.

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Yes, it’s that time already; some computers (one’s you might not even remember) are finally retro. Jason Bitner explores our first encounters with these machines through photographs and essays; learn more about the project here, including how to submit your own bit (or eight bits…) of technological nostalgia.

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Well we’ve got answers for you! In her latest project, our own Rozalia Jovanovic gave out five simple, everyday tasks to twenty four participants – writers, artists, musicians, etc. Using a pseudonym, these participants reported back on their tasks via postcard, each response different and unique, resulting in the project promising to deliver you out of the Doldroms: “Manual for a Productive Everyday Life.”

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Carnoy doesn’t argue that music piracy originated with the iPod, but rather that the release of the product marked the proverbial shot of adrenaline in the heart of illegal filesharing. With the release of the iPad, Corney predicts a similar fate for ebooks, as well as good old fashion paper book sales. Will the iPad fuel pirates of the written world into greater and greater numbers? Perhaps, especially with pillaging only a touchscreen away.

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Jay Baron Nicavo muses through the possible culprits of the current climate, from MFA students to power-hungry editors. In the end, he boils it down to a sort of corporate group-think mentality on the part of editors, as they scramble to find the “next big hit.” Like the movie industry, marketable fiction has succumbed to the lilting seduction of the blockbuster, and oh, what a dollar-hungry demon it is.

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Between hardcover, paperback, iTunes, and e-readers, each new literary hit has to be re-priced, re-marketed, and re-sold. And yet amongst the chaos of the industry, it sees that the fortunes of devoted readers have never looked better. Not only are e-readers and iTunes-style books developing a craft and aesthetic all their own, but a book has never come at a better value, or at a more accessible location. The result? The American readership is increasing, and that’s always good news.

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Turns out there might be more to font choices than just aesthetics; type faces such as Century Gothic and Times New Roman use about 30% less ink than say, Arial (as do most serif — as opposed to sans serif — font varieties). The hitch, however, is that a thinner font is a wider font, which means less words per page and more pages per words… and thus it comes to the ever-too common choice: the environment, or your pocketbook?

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