Zine
So you decide to keep up with the DIY community in your town. To you, this means taking all the local zines you’ve collected and contacting all the editor/writers and telling them what you think of their work, whether they want to hear it or not.
And after you can brainstorming your own wicked schemes, of course. Plus you get to hang out in the library where there's 1) books and 2) cuties.
After alientating several former allies, you strike gold with the editors of Hells Bitchin', a particularly cynical and semi-violent college rag from the local expensive tech school. You go to a meeting for their zine, which bores you to tears until they tell you they want to do a split issue with you. Yeah! They’ll pay publishing, if you just try to sell some ads to local stores. Yeah, you’ll definitely try.
You show up two weeks later with all 8 pages of EVOL. Because you love Sonic Youth and because life is like that. Not pagan like that, but just rude and tough, anti-human. You drop it off at their office, and a few weeks later get a call to come pick it up at their next meeting. The editor tosses your zine at you. It’s in a sealed plastic bag. You look confused. And no, you did not sell any ads.
He says, “We can't use this...it smells like POT.”
This is apparently a big fucking deal to the little man. Your contact / friend Bryan looks sheepish and eats another chip. No, you wont remake the whole thing. You take your stinky zine and go to kinkos. It's late and if you flirt with the counter guy, you can get your zine printed for a few bucks.
To go to see Hole play.
To keep it real and write some wicked shit with your new friend.
