Welcome to Brag Book
Personal archive of queer clutter
The post where I lay out what I plan to write so I can look back in a year and say, “Oh wow… that’s what I was going for?' Welcome to Brag Book – a place for vintage found photos, personal stories, and paper ephemera I can’t bear to toss, curated by me, Amos Mac.
As a trans man who came of age pre-YouTube, I’ve spent most of my life chasing the queer story — behind the camera, from the pages of Original Plumbing, in writers' rooms for some of your streaming faves (Gossip Girl, Clean Slate), and more recently, through a growing collection of found photos, many that I rescue just before they are taken to the dump because guess what? You can’t recycle printed photos. Apparently they’re full of chemicals! Same, but I digress.
I’m not an archivist or an academic. But I do love thrifting awkward vintage photos from the 20th century, especially the years right before our phones took over. I’m hopelessly drawn to ephemera, scraps, and the glorious mess of what gets kept – and what accidentally survives. I’m obsessed with the ways queer and trans people archive their lives, whether on purpose or completely by mistake — and how photographs become both the record and the residue of that impulse.
Like: you toss a few Polaroids in a junk drawer and forget about them. Years pass. You’re moving again — another apartment, another version of yourself. You unearth the photos, the memory sparks joy, so you tape one to the fridge. Then one day it falls behind the fridge, and you never pick it up, because life. You probably didn’t even notice it was missing. Time warp again: a new tenant sweeps under the fridge (there’s a first time for everything), finds the dusty photo, squints at it, and goes, “Yes! I knew this place had gay energy. Wait… is that my ex’s ex when they were younger? I’ll have to add this to my altar.”
Or: a wallet-sized prom photo of your pre-transition self gets tucked between the pages of a book and forgotten about, only to be discovered years later by a goth kid in a thrift store flipping through your donated copy of Mommie Dearest (first edition hardcover, dust jacket miraculously still intact) and the photo slips out. They pick it up, look at your 1997 face, and go, “This is like, very queer. And also, lol old people.”
These messy, accidental, deeply personal versions of archiving tell a story. This space is my way of sharing what I’ve collected, from my life and others’, before we all dissolve into the ether of our own algorithmic black hole sun.
The name Brag Book comes from those little photo albums people used to carry around, perfect for a granny’s purse — perhaps you know the tiny books I’m talking about, stuffed with wedding shots, vacation candids, and the occasional awkward horror: a pissed-off newborn with the umbilical cord still attached. All the visual hits you’d totally want to share with that stranger at a bus stop in a delightful pre-cell phone timeline.
I like to imagine my grandmother had one. Not sure if she actually carried one around — but I guess you could say she wallpapered with the idea of it. Her staircase was basically an Olan Mills shrine — framed school portraits of all the grandkids in peak awkward phase, lined up like a gallery of braces and bowl cuts. I was grandkid number 14, born on the 14th — do with that what you will. I wish I had a photo of the actual wall. It was wood paneling, and it was glorious. Can you close your eyes and visualize it?
As a self-proclaimed flaming trans, I’m using this stack-o-subs as my Brag Book — not just personally, but in a broader, cultural sense. May I be so bold as to queer the concept of those tiny photo albums that lived at the bottom of a purse? I need something joyful I can pour myself into – a reminder that I’m a human artist and not just a soft-brained cyborg toggling between doomscrolls and TV pilot revisions. Brag Book might shift, stretch, or surprise me — and that’s kind of the point. But for now, please imagine me carrying this Brag Book around in a virtual Pee-wee Herman tote, because let’s be real — a print zine? In this economy?
What you’ll find in Brag Book:
Photos I’ve rescued — vintage found snapshots, plus the rabbit holes I tumble down trying to trace their stories.
Other people’s trash — interviews with friends and artists (and a peek at the scraps they’re holding onto).
Diary crumbs — unbraggable bits, personal spirals, tiny wins – spanning the Deep South, SF zine scenes, back-to-school in Brooklyn, and Hollywood writer hustles.
Scans from the shoebox — paper ephemera I can’t throw away and no one will inherit, so I might as well scan and post them here.
I’ll post weekly, sometimes more if inspiration hits.
Why I offered paid subscriptions from the jump:
Most subscriber posts will be totally free because I want people to read and feel connected, no paywall required. But if you’re in the mood to support an independent artist (hi), you can subscribe as a paid subscriber.
Your support helps me:
Interview and uplift other artists as they talk about weird stuff they place into paper piles
Carve out time to write freely and frequently, independent from corporate overlords
Keep hunting down vintage, potentially queer photos (the jury’s out on if this addiction is good or bad)
Build something that lasts – even though the internet gives me trust issues
Got an idea? You know where to find me.
You might even get the occasional treat in your inbox. But honestly? The biggest perk is becoming an Instant Trans Ally™. Includes full bragging rights and a confusing fist bump.
Subscribe, stick around, and drop a brag in the comments – something you’ve saved from the trash, something you’ve made, something you miss, or something you want to see here.
It’s what Grandma would’ve wanted.
Flame on,
Amos Mac
so so good. simply thrilled that this stack-o-subs will bring us more of your brilliance. can't wait to see what's coming!