How To Start Your Own Zine – Part II: Exploitation of the Proletariat – Fiction

How To Start Your Own Zine

by Mitchell Greentower
illustration by Opie

Part II: Exploitation of the Proletariat

In our last issue we talked about the importance of ad sales, if you expect to survive in the world of ‘zine publishing. But, as many pointed out, what about all those college lifestyle ‘zines like U. So Stupid, which start out chock full of ads from the likes of American Express, Budweiser, and Killington, only to then, slick pages and all, disappear into the void of the permanent recycling bin, after only a few issues?

Sadly, the answer is content. Kitschy advice columns, horoscope parodies, and photos of cute chicks frolicking on the beach during Spring Break or holding up glasses of Dom Perignon, bought by some obese Saudi prince at a Lansdowne Street Euro-Night, just will not maintain a readership.

Believe me, I tried. But after a while, I couldn’t chase down Pete Lions for an ad even when he was hobbling about from an alleged squash mishap. Pete fought the squash and the squash won, but he still bested me two out of three in a series of races from the Lion’s den corporate offices to his Mercedes. Victory was mine on the third and final contest, so the sore loser hit me with his crutch, and then, needless to say, wouldn’t even take out a lousy quarter page ad. What’s worse, I had to wear a neck brace for three months. (Lawyer’s orders.)

It was that then I moved to Jersey and decided to make a deal with the devil incarnate. Artists. Everyone said you need “content” and that these artistic types are the people who can provide it. Actually, it’s not fair to call them the devil incarnate, to the devil that is. At least the devil knows what he is. These artists think they are saints. The emotional wringer they can put you through is worse than a blow to the head from even the most irate club maven’s crutch. Artists don’t leave a mark so you can’t even sue. And they usually don’t have any money anyway.

As with any business, the key to profitably operating your ‘zine is to charge your customers more than your employees charge you. This is called business management, and whole institutes of higher learning are devoted to this activity.

In any given labor pool, there are usually one or two trouble-makers. These malcontents can be dealt with through dismissals or, if they are truly evil, with a promotion. But artistic workers are universally trouble-makers, and you can’t promote them all.

Unlike those employed in more sane occupations, like meat packing and auto undercoating, artistic workers cannot be controlled with promises of higher pay or better hours. These creative types possess an abiding faith in something they usually call “artistic integrity.”

This delusional matrix provides the ‘zine publisher with both his greatest opportunity and his biggest headache. Opportunity, because if you judiciously parcel out this artistic integrity stuff, they will work for little or no pay. Headache, because if you fail to live up to your promise of providing them a venue for their peculiar brand of artistic integrity, the artist will make your life miserable, or at least try.

The artist’s preferred instrument of torture is the ordinary telephone. With it he will call you to do one of three things: Brag, complain, and weasel out of deadlines. Utilizing one of these three subject areas, he will attempt to engage your emotions, which is, after all, his stock in trade. Of course, if you’re still around by issue four, you haven’t had a real emotion since issue three. And faking an emotion, like faking an orgasm, is even more tiring than the real thing.

You could hire some touchy-feely type, give him a title, a little power, and charge him with coddling your artists. But what if he actually succeeds? There is nothing more useless than a happy artist. It’s their job to be miserable. How many art exhibitions did Yoko Ono put on after she hooked up with that guitarist from the Beatles?

That’s why we at Slaves of History have gone high tech with P.R. I.A.P.I.C.S. (Publisher’s-Remote-Interactive-Artistic-Personnel- Interpersonal-Communications-System.) P.R.I.A.P.I.C.S.’ wizardry allows the artist to vent his emotions without engaging yours, leaving you time for more important things like getting drunk and sleeping late. It also succeeds in not providing the artist with any lingering satisfaction that might undermine his usefulness. P.R.I.A.P.I.C.S. works like this:

Welcome to Slaves of History. If you are a staff writer or staff artist press 1, otherwise please stay on the line and a human being will assist you.

1. Please state your name.
“TED”
“Ted, got your last piece. It was the best, man. I don’t know how you do it.”
Press 1, to brag, press 2 to complain, or press 3 to weasel out of a deadline.

1. You have selected brag. Please wait.
“Ted, that sounds great. When can you get it to me by?” Beep.

2. You have selected complain. State your complaint at the tone, and press 1 if your complaint is with the publisher, press 2 if your complaint is with an editor, or press three if your complaint is with a co-worker. Then please stay on the line for a personalized response from the publisher. Beep.

(1) “I understand how you feel, Ted. I know I’m a prick. But I can’t fire myself. I’ll try to do better.”

(2) “I understand how you feel, Ted. I know he’s a moron. But he’s reliable as hell. I’ll talk to him.”

(3) “I understand how you feel Ted. I know he’s a flaming asshole. But he’s talented as hell. I’ll talk to him.”

3. You have selected weasel out of a deadline. Press 1 to weasel out of a deadline less than one week away. Press 2 to weasel out of a deadline less than one day away. Press 3 to weasel out of a deadline that was longer ago than yesterday.

(1) “Ted, don’t worry man. I can slide you another day or two. We’ll work around it, that’s all. Just do the best you can.” Beep

(2) “Ted, I’ve cut you all the slack I can. Just go balls to the wall. Take speed. Do what you gotta do but get it to me by tomorrow at ten. We’re counting on you buddy. ” Beep

(3) “Ted, you fucking dick. I hope your mother gets cancer. I know where you live, you asshole. If I don’t get that drawing by tonight I’ll pull your house off the foundation. We’re counting on you buddy.” Beep

You may, if you choose, adopt your own unique management style into the P.R.I.A.P.I.C.S. program. Keep in mind, however, that artists are masters of simulating reality for their own benefit, and your psyche’s only defense is a simulated reality of its own. So cast off that Prozac prescription, pop open a beer, and hook your chariot to the information age. Good luck.