Dear Comrades. The ill winds of fate have blown their leaden gusts through the tattered sails of the good ship HUMP, dashing both it and this dreadful metaphor onto the sharp, indifferent rocks. In other words, this humble zine’s brief tenure as the shining standard-bearer of the Murdoch Media Empire has come to an ignoble end. Old Wrinkly Rupes, heartbroken at the loss of Gerri Hall, found a short window of lucidity between mewling pathetically on the bathroom floor and pouring room-temperature salted caramel Ben & Jerry’s down his withered gullet to order that his most sought-after assets, viz. yours truly, to be immediately liquidated. As a result of this sudden loss of windfall (a windjump, then?) we have had to make certain cutbacks, reducing the original staff of one to “one with a drinking problem”.

So, we wonder about the future of our enterprise, of Brave and Vital journalism such as ours, and we also, after lapsing back into the aforementioned drinking problem, wonder about the word wonder.

If you’ll allow me to be vulgar for a moment here, rainbows ain’t got shit on the glorious spectrum of the word “wonder”. You can wonder if you’re going to die, wonder what that burning sensation is, wonder what those deadbeats are doing over there, wonder at a sunrise, wonder whether any modern hip-hop artist will ever surpass the legacy of the great Missy Elliott, taken too soon from this world, wonder when is too soon, wonder if there’s enough cash left in the account for this withdrawal, wonder when this goddamn drum circle will ever stop, wonder what example to write next in this list. Wonder runs the gamut from interest, to puzzlement, to awe, to fear, to love, to incredulousness. At its best, travel is about frantically lurching from one mode of wonder to the next, like learning how to drive a tractor during a bank job getaway.

Wondering what point I’m trying to make with all of this? So am I. Let’s keep wondering together, comrades. It’s actually kinda fun.

Xox Harold “Ordeal or no deal” Hump