Yan Yan is a sage, a scalawag and a wordsmith. Here are some of the things you’ll find in his stories: Palo Alto paleontologists and their lovelorn teenagers, Rem Koolhaas, asshole anarchists who wax theological at hardcore shows, Paris Hilton and the amnesiacs who love her, solar-powered parkas, and the therapeutic qualities of taking a warm bath in a postmodern igloo on the Alaskan tundra.
Yan Yan ensured my lifelong allegiance at the age of fifteen, when he exposed me to the sublime weirdness of Hong Kong cinema on a hot summer day in his parents’ suburban living room. Since then, we’ve shared some memorable adventures on both coasts, and I’ve had the privilege of watching his writing flourish over the years. Also, he plays Ukulele.
Not long after graduating from Columbia, Yan absconded New York for China and its shimmering promises of an unknown future. So in his absence, I was stoked to learn that ultra-rad small press Medium Rare has published a beautiful box set of five Yan Yan zines. Take a look at the collection in all its glory below, along with some pictures I snapped of the rapscallion raconteur himself, last time he visited L.A.