WELCOME TO MONK: THE MOBILE MAGAZINE.
Monk began in April 1986 when Mike, Jim, and their neurotic cat Nurse loaded up their worldly possessions, including sundry wool sweaters, into a rented U-Haul and fled San Francisco because they couldn’t afford the rent. They landed on John Deming’s back lawn in Paradise, California. After being mistakenly hired as “gardeners” for two months, they earned enough money to purchase their first vehicle, the beloved “72 Ford Econoline van,” from which they began compiling a newsletter dubbed “The Monthly Monk.” Their purpose was to stay in touch with friends and family while not looking like a couple of sleazy bums wandering through America. Only three months into the journey, all hell broke loose, and they were up to their ears in “growing subscriber interest.” Their “monthly” newsletter, already three months late, was wisely renamed Monk: The Try-Quarterly. They would “try” to come out quarterly.
As The Monks traveled throughout the Lower 48, Monk took on a power of its own. By March 1987, it went national, becoming the world’s first mobile magazine, supported by courageous advertisers and a devoted public. The Monks set a new goal of searching the entire continent for their lost cat Nurse.
Monk was written from the road about life on the road. In each issue, The Monks described their latest encounters with the lucky victims of their latest pitstop: everyone from artists to housewives, clowns to visionaries, and occasionally, real live monks. They were a gentle tickle in the side of the earnest seeker, the frazzled clerk, and the burned-out healer. They sought out the inner child and prankster in all of us, though they could be quite inspiring, offering a uniquely personal take on the land and its people. They were also useful. Thousands of readers used Monk to teach dogs how to fetch.
But the magazine was just the hard copy of a more expansive vision: The Monks’ living cells interacting with each other, the planet, and the sentient beings they met along the way. They were a traveling show, publishing house, and monastery all rolled into one. Only through Monk could readers not only live vicariously through the adventures of The Monks but join them for the drive. And many did.
Now, nearly 25 years since its last print incarnation, Monk has grown far beyond a rare and treasured heirloom. It has entered mythic status as evidence of a pre-Internet America few today have experienced. As resident in-monastery philosopher Jim Monk recently opined, “Monk was pre-digital, fully human, non-AI. It was imperfect, roughhewn, real. You had to have it postal mailed to you or quickly grab it on a newsstand before it sold out. As today's billionaire CEOs sing the praises of their computer-engineered ‘content solutions,’ in truth, they’ve lost the connection to what is truly human and good.
With the mid-90s Faustian bargain that came with the Internet and the rise of a detached, dopamine-driven, techno-sphere, the hunger for a slower, kinder, pre-digital connection has grown apace. Smartphones, smartwatches, game consoles, social media, and search engines are now so interwoven into our lives that we are, in effect, ‘bowling alone.’ Lots of sugar, no nutrition. Monk is the antidote to all that.”
If you still hunger for the authentic amateur and the real America, we invite you to, at long last, buy your untouched Monk back issues here. Many are extremely rare, but they are worth every penny.
As always, please drop us a line to let us know who you are, where you are, and what’s been going on.
To fans and friends old and new . . . The Journey Continues.
With love,
The Monks
Buckle up your seatbelts, put down your devices, and pay close attention to off-ramps. The Monks have a massive trove of wild, wacky, wonderful detours ahead. Fourteen solid years of mishaps started with our very first encounter along the roads of Northern California. Landing in Paradise, California, before it burned, we found our way to the Abbey of New Clairvaux, a Trappist Monastery near Vina. Days were spent at Deer Creek, watching the salmon slip through our fingers, while the hourly bells summoned a chance encounter with our first real Monk, Henry the Kindhearted. You'll find many journeys of the heart, serendipitous encounters, and unexpected twists and turns in our search for the authentic soul of America. We promise never a dull moment. Explore!
EPISODE 12 MAINE TEASER
Lobster pounds and crazed Canadians out sunning in the frigid fog abounded up the winding coastal highway. Everyone spoke French. On second notice, it wasn't French at all. It was Mainers speaking in a loud guttural bellow, leaning on their horns, anxious to pass our brakeless, sputtering, white trash hippie camper with "I Brake For Dykes" emblazoned across the back bumper.
Pulling over to let the tailgating stream of traffic pass (one of the few Good Sam precepts we do abide by), Jim parked adjacent to a dock where a heated brawl between a lobsterman and a lobster was well into round three. Next to Joe's Lobster Pound stood a short squat hunk flailing a lobster against the side of a wall trying to knock it loose, his forearm caught in the crusher claw of a good-size five pounder.
The lobster's claw furiously clung to flesh, as Joe violently shook his arm. His shirt was ripped and his pants were hanging on his hips, offering a good view of Maine cleavage.
He was tripping over his untied boots, dropping change, keys and wallet on the ground, spit drooling down his plump red cheeks. And with a fierce look in his bulging eyes, he wailed at the desperate crustacean, who obviously did not want to meet his maker in the mighty hot cauldron.
"Ayuh, the gawmy thing!"
Several out-of-towners stood back in horror, while a mother covered her son's eyes and ears, trying to pull her family back into their BMW. By now Joe's face was so red with rage he'd taken a brick, smashed the bloody creature, and in one last desperate attempt, plunged the defenseless lobster into the scalding cauldron, sealing its fate forever.
"Ayuh, there she goes."
Joe didn't feel a thing.
No, not a thing.
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EPISODE 18 NEVADA TEASER
The Monks cruised the hundred miles to Vegas under cloudy skies hoping to sneak in quietly before dawn. Coming over a hill, the orange, big-city glow slowly grew over the horizon. Finally, looking across a valley, Las Vegas literally popped into sight with a million watts of light arching across the desert floor like a march of fire ants spreading west.
With eyes smashed like grapes against the windshield The Monks exited downtown where they were momentarily bedazzled by the ten or so blocks of bright-as-day casinos along dusty streets and broken pavement. Dolly Lama was at the window too, her pupils dilated to the point of pain from the high voltage light show popping off in a million directions at once. And then, just as quickly as it began, it stopped. The light and magic diminished to the point of nothingness. The adjacent neighborhood was as sad as any we'd ever seen.
“That was it? I thought Vegas was more than that." Mike felt disappointed.
"Do it again!" yelled Jim.
The Monks were content to circle the blocks a few more times with whiplashed necks bent low over the dashboard arching up to look at the lights, the signs and the buffet offerings. Finally, after more than six times around, Mike turned south on Las Vegas Boulevard and headed into the dark when all at once more lights popped into view, towering high and far away.
Further south the volume of light began to pick up again. It was like entering a new time zone of a forever-daylight neon world.
Passing Charleston Boulevard, The Monks now knew that compared to the paltry offering of glitz the downtown had so immediately surrendered, here, on The Strip, was the Mother Mary of neon glamour. Inflated, overstated, and completely bejeweled in its tackiest costumed splendor was the most white-trash-meets-bourgeois parody of America that had ever lit the skies.
"Out of control, out of control," Mike was mumbling over and over as he inched down the Boulevard at six in the morning in a bizarre traffic jam.
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EPISODE 8 ARKANSAS TEASER
Grandma Lane is known for far more than biscuits and gravy. As a matter of fact, she doesn't do much cook'n . She's content to subsist on toast in the morning, grilled cheese sandwiches for lunch and supper, and an occasional meal of fish and cooked broccoli with melted cheese. She doesn't know what kind of fish it is. She just knows she likes it. You see, mundane things like food and its preparation don't much interest Grandma anymore. Though there is one thing that does still interest her. And, in fact, interests most everybody born in these parts. And that's "visit'n."
Visit'n is short for visiting, and it's a national pastime around here. Those of us who come from the city sneak our visits in short bites, usually on the phone, at some restaurant, maybe in the car en route to an event. Here in the Ozarks there's no such pressing agenda. The only thing you must do is go to work and make an occasional appearance at the local Church of Christ.
But visit'n? Now that's another matter. It's part and parcel of living in these hills. You can spot a local from a "northerner" by the degree of visit'n in which they engage. A northerner, mind you, is anybody who wasn't born in the Ozarks, even if they've lived here since they were three years old.
Northerners are easy to spot. They are usually looking at their watches or preoccupying themselves with other things besides visit'n. They'll invariably be in a hurry, talk fast, use your phone, pace the floor, light two cigarettes and leave early. They'll do anything to distract themselves from the undulating rhythms of visit'n.
What Northerners can't seem to get is that you've got to ease into visit'n. It's like entering a hot tub. You slide in like there is nothing else to do in the world. You've got to sloooooowwww down. Slow way down.
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