Kane S. Latranz
3 min read
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“Mario, I f**king hate you/You said you were at work then whys your car HERE at HER place?? You're a f**king LIAR/I hate you/I f**king hate you/Amber/PS Page me later.”

One snowy Chicago night, Found Magazine mastermind Davy Rothbart discovered the above note on the windshield of his Toyota Camry, minus the asterisks I stuck in there. Presumably, Mario, boyfriend of the tempestuous and less-than-resolutely pissed off Amber (“Page me later”), drives a Toyota Camry as well, and so Amber inadvertently found her 10 minutes of fame.

“Is the problem that you can't read plain English, or is it because you are just another rude f**k who doesn't pay attention to signs saying don't park in my driveway.”

The bulk of Found Magazine is made up of notes sent in from all over the country. There are also photographs; shopping and “to-do” lists; entire journals; letters, fliers; misdirected e-mails; and other found tie-ins. All of the written items are reproduced in their original script, warts and all, some torn-up documents pieced back together, a few missing words guessed at here and there by Found's neo-archeologists.

“Tuesday 3:00 pm/The Crucifixion/A Reenactment/Join Us In Front Of The Union!”

Among the requirements for contributors is that they write a couple of paragraphs about their find, and name the items they send in for publication. Carly Ptak happened upon a binder on the plane that brought what seemed to be a rather sweet, if not terribly adventurous girl and her boyfriend, home from their vacation in Hawaii. During their eight days in the South Pacific, they had sex, lay on the beach, bought cheap gee-gaws, watched “ER,” took in the sights, and ate at McDonald's and Taco Bell, as well as some exotic faraway place called “Cheeseburger in Paradise,” which also became the title for this find.

“Please do not bounce head! Thank you.”

I loved an article on Wisconsin's Tom Every, also known as “Doctor Evermore.” This World War II-era recycled artist was in the scrap metal business, and currently estimates that he has some 300 tons of steel and iron on his expansive property. Much of the scrap is the rusting remains of ships and breweries from which the greatly self-mythologized “Doctor” has erected gigantic birds and an enormous rocket ship among other wild creations, accompanied by photos which convey a decidedly Teslian, '30s Chicago World's Fair sensibility.

Rothbart's magazine is loaded and fascinating, intimate, racy, creepy, touching, sad, downright funny and anything else that you might possibly derive from these bits and pieces reflecting the human condition.

“The bunny or rabbit are stupid/get rid of them.”

They need more stuff, too. So as you resolve to stop parking in other people's driveways and bouncing your head, keep your eyes to the ground, and if you're going to scrawl or type anything, choose your words carefully, and for God's sake learn to spell!

“I am not sure what bunny or rabbit you refer to here. Please be more specific. Thanks.”

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