How to Start Your Own Zine

by Mitchell Greentower
illustration by Opie

Part III: Schleppin’ Wolf

“So what’s your circulation?” is a question often asked of ‘zine publishers. It’s right up there with “Are you making any money?” (when you’re not) and “Could you, like, be more of a sell out?” (when you can finally afford to buy your own beer). Your reply to an advertiser’s circulation query should be a large round number with as many zeroes in it as possible. The operating principal here is: Kill a tree or die.

I started Slaves of History, in the independent republic of North Jersey, with a print run of 10,000 and only a sketchy idea of what to do next. That is, after my first round of distribution was complete. Sure, all my loyals fans had their copy (my mother, my ex-girlfriend, my great-aunt Generica at the nursing home, my best friend from elementary school who now works in mergers and acquisitions at Merrill Lynch, even the paper-trained pit bull next door). But that still left 9,995 issues, mostly stacked in neat little bundles of a hundred. That’s over three Hyundai loads. Enough to fill a small kitchen without any space left for ash trays, dirty dishes, coffee mugs, the kitty box or any other important stuff.

Interested in a soaring triumph of the human spirit? Try Readers’ Digest. Blanketing some poor unsuspecting community with thousands of free ‘zines involves aspects of human nature that engage a considerably lower segment of the brain stem. Portions we share in common with lawyers, amphibians, and cockroaches.

You don’t need testosterone injections to schlep magazines all over town. But it sure helps in achieving the proper frame of mind. With a couple issues under your belt, properly distributed, you earn membership into a disloyal brotherhood, the real urban cowboys – Professional Drivers. At that point, you’re ready, willing, and able to go fender-to-fender, car horn-to-car horn, and raised-middle-finger to raised-middle-finger, with UPS brownies, coffee coaches, and Dominos pizza deliverers. You become the driver you formerly loathed. You act like you own the road, because, in some sense, you know you do.

Fire hydrants and handicap spots, once your arch-nemesis, become your closest allies, as you run in and out of student centers, record stores, and fashion retail outlets, one step ahead of the executioner’s boot. The city is a fraying, yet intricate web, you realize, and only a fool would be anything but a spider. Like some hellion from Pardadise Lost, you begin actually “preferring hard liberty before the easy yoke of servile pomp.”

For this evolution to take place more easily within you, however, it is helpful to know some history. Like most of the lasting achievements of civilization – macaroni, gun powder, foot worship – mass circulated ‘zines began in that oldest of nations, China.

The earliest known ‘zines appeared during the waning days of the Yin dynasty, in about 993 A.D. Most scholars credit a group of zealots, who called themselves “The Seeds of Dischord,” for this giant step in human progress.

Angered that they were either too stupid or lazy to pass the nation’s rigorous and competitive civil service test, the group painstakingly embarked on hand-copying reproductions of examination crib notes. The test material was then circulated throughout the lethargic south of China in tea houses, opium dens, and rickshaw terminals. Their expenses were offset by spying for the very government they hoped to overthrow. The Seeds of Dischord hoped that through their efforts, the nation would be liberated from what they termed, “the tyranny of the industrious.”

But almost immediately, a member of the inner circle, Oh Lof Lin, grew bored with the task of copying test answers, and began inking pointed commentary about various poets, philosophers, and petty imperial functionaries into the margins. These remarks became more popular than the actual test material, which was soon abandoned altogether, due to lack of interest. Thus, the modern ‘zine was born. The Seeds of Dischord were soon joined by countless competitors, mostly from the North, until the crackdown of 1066.

Not so ironically, The Seeds of Dischord learned the technology of efficient ‘zine circulation from a lowly, but ambitious Pekinese who had traveled south with his master, a wealthy merchant. While following him on his morning rounds, they learned, through parables, the three primary steps of distribution: The sniff, the drop, and the bark.

The sniff involves roaming your territory to find a good place to place your ‘zine. Like the Pekinese, your criteria must be stringent. You only drop where the competition is. But first, you must circumvent the drop-area with a series of low growls, offended that somebody actually had the qadahfies to get there before you. Next, lay claim to your territory by placing your ‘zine in the best spot available without actually covering up what was there before you.

The bark is reserved for those rare occasions when you return to one of your drops, only to find that, as George Carlin says, “someone has put their shit on your stuff.” Of course, when confronted, your fellow free-distribution types deny everything with an indignant series of loud yaps. They would never dream of covering up anyone’s publication, they claim. They might even be telling the truth. But at least you will have established with the alleged cur that you’ll stand up for your turf.
Should the accused grow angry and also happens to be bigger than you are, then, like the Pekinese, you should run like hell, while spitting bursts of invective suitable to the occasion over your shoulder.

Too late, you’ll learn in turning pro that “alternative” is really for amatuers. So smoke ’em if you’ve got ’em, crank up some Zeppelin on classic rock FM, or even Rush Limpbough on some politically erect AM station. Who’s gonna know?
Just let that cigarette dangle with a forearm hung over the steering wheel and take a drive past the local college. As you not-so-discreetly leer at the scholarly babes waiting for the trolley, take pride that day when, in return, you no longer get the “You should really know better” look from the objects of your admiring glances. It means you no longer look like someone who should. Now cut off a cabby just because… you’ve got work to do.