How To Start Your Own Zine

by Mitchell Greentower
illustration by Opie

Part IV: You gotta know when to fold ’em…

Thanks one and all for the cards and letters, pouring into various ‘zine offices nationwide. And to the dozens of editors and publishers who had the good judgement to print the first three installments of How To Start Your Own ‘Zine.

Let me just say that I am really not worthy of all this attention, but then neither is Tom Hanks, so I decided to make the most of it and enjoy, for a little while.

It was especially gratifying to receive a letter from Paula Abdul sent care of a Chula Vista, California-based publication called ‘Retch, the only ‘zine in North America devoted entirely to flesh-eating bacteria.

Paula, I don’t care what Emilio is telling the kids, I think it’s cool you’re going to Jenny Craig. Flesh-eating bacteria treatments are still very experimental. By the way, it’s a little sad that a show business career has led you to equate body-image with self-image. Please write again, Paula, and let me know how you are doing, when you’ve lost about ten pounds.

Frankly, everything I know about ‘zine publishing was summed up in the first three installments. But I talked it over with Michael Jackson. It seems The King of Pop read Installment II in an action adventure ‘zine called Pirates of the Carribean. “Only a child, Mitch, would quit while he’s ahead simply because he had nothing meaningful left to contribute,” Michael told me.

So for a little inspiration, I decided to drive up from North Jersey to attend an “invitation only” ‘zine publishers gathering held in the Jacques Chirac Presidential Suite at the Howard Johnson’s Motor Lodge in Cambridge. My plan was to pick the brains of some of the attendees, reconstitute their ideas in my own irrepressible style, then pass them on to you, the hapless consumer, for my fourth, fifth and sixth installments. Who knows? I might even establish myself as some kind of expert, an oracle for that Tower of Babel, which comprises ‘Zine Nation. I could easily see myself doing a remote-feed interview with Ted Koppel on Nightline by the end of the year.

In this self-aggrandizing spirit, I headed on up to the conference, arriving over an hour late, but just in time to hear the key note speaker. A true denizen, Max Hedon, parleyed the first 28 installments of his ‘zine into a Dell paperback, called “The Complete Sensualist,” thereby earning himself the kind of respectability ‘zine publishers both crave and despise.

The maestro was supposed to give a lecture about his experiences and insights on the subject of ‘zines, under a blazing international orange banner which read: “Reinventing the Wheel.”

But after a few confused remarks about the C.I.A., low level radiation, and the mercury content of dental fillings, Hedon lushly fell against the podium and onto the floor for a little nap.

An uneasy rumble overtook the ornate conference room when Tammy Lee Thayer, from a religious right group called Sane Celibates For Sado-Masochism, let out a holler from the bowels of hell, or so it seemed. She had rushed to revive this lord of lords from his embarrassing stupor, but Hedon, for his part, began quite determinedly biting her ankle in return.

Tammy was rescued by a certain Sister Columbo, whose ‘zine, Nun Dares Call It a Conspiracy, warns it’s readership about a multi-lingual plot by the left-handed, in conjunction with a cabal of rap artists, and a metric ton of petulant microbes from the planet Zatar to run roughshod over the right-handed majority in the US and throughout the world.

“It’s no coincidence that Clinton, Bush, Perot, and YOU, Mr. Max Hedon, are all left-handed. This entire conference has been co-opted.”

“I’m not left-handed, Columbo. I’m ambidextrous,” Hedon replied before lewdly sinking his teeth into the hem of the good sister’s garment.

It seemed total anarchy would ensue, as two anarchists, co-publishers of a fanzine about a couple of bank robbers named Sacco and Venzetti, looked on with hopeful expectancy.

Order was quickly restored, however, by the presence at the podium of the steely glare and deep pockets of H., the conference organizer. She had more money than Howard Johnson himself, having patented a design which effectively makes the on/off switch on computers and laser printers difficult to impossible to locate, for even the most ardent nerd. Her invention, purchased exclusively by Hewlett Packard, had put that computer giant ten years ahead of its competitors in the area of power source obfuscation.

Bored with computer hardware, H. jumped the fence with a mountain of cash, into the realm of human software, or “squash works” as she called them. H. planned to leave her indelible stamp on the world through the mechanism of ‘zine publishing, on a grand scale.

If media is man made weather, then H. and her publishing empire were and are, a veritable shit storm. Everyone in the now hushed crowd knew it.

At last count, H. owned 31 ‘zines, ranging from one about monster truck pulls called Breaking Point, to a bi-monthly lesbian poetry anthology also called Breaking Point. H. managed all through a well-oiled corporate umbrella called Well-Oiled Corporate Umbrella Enterprises.

“You were all invited here for a reason,” she said, waving her checkbook in the air.
“Shhh,” everyone hissed at everyone else in the once silent suite.

“Good news, everyone. I am buying all of you out. But before I do, you will all have to sign a non-disclosure statement, agreeing to keep the minutes of this meeting a secret.” (So go ahead and sue me H.) “The world will little note nor long remember what we have said here, at least if I have anything to say about it.”

Everyone cried and hugged one another, particularly Max Hedon and Sister Columbo, and without further ado, took the money.

Even me. I had essentially crashed the conference, but still managed to get enough money for Slaves of History (now called Handmaids of History) to make a down payment on a Toyota Camry. H. even got me a job doing graphic design duplication at Kinkos. So I can probably afford the low monthly payments, if I move back in with my sister and brother-in-law.

It just goes to show, ‘zine publishing doesn’t necessarily lead, like Vitamin B-6 deficiency, to disease, dementia, and death, but can be a stepping stone to air-conditioned, air-bagged, indentured servitude.

I never liked Ted Koppel or Nightline anyway.

Farewell.