[Note: This is the introduction for the reprints of Cranks 1-3 which were included in the print version of Crank #7. I'm including it here, even though it's a bit out of context. -Koyen]

My only regret is that so many people had assumed that I'd stopped publishing. That I'd disappeared into the fringe-pop-culture ether like so many other zine publishers. I hadn't. Well, I had stopped publishing in the sense that I hadn't been seen for so long, but I hadn't "stopped" in the way someone, say, stops drinking, smoking, fucking or being married.

Now, though, with this issue produced and released in the same spirit as my first issue--a small number of copies, hand-bound--I have stopped. Publishing, that is.

If you were kind enough to subscribe, then I tried to send you a refund for unfulfilled issues. Every subscriber I could contact got some sort of refund since I started accepting 4-issue subscriptions with Crank #5. With some 300 subscribers, I had to cough up about $1000 to get out of this with arrangement with some integrity. (If you feel you've been cheated in any way, send an e-mail to thievery@crank.com.)

Can anyone name any other zine or magazine that has ever refunded its subscribers cash for unproduced issues? I doubt it. There are two reasons for this: 1) They're too broke to send the refunds; 2) They never want to admit that any issue is their last.

Well, I'm admitting it: This is my last issue. And I'm not so broke that I'd sacrifice my dignity.

Few people read Crank #1. That's the way it goes with small-scale, self-produced, creative projects. Though I was, admittedly, arrogant enough to assume that people would someday want to dig up and read the first Crank, I was nonetheless too poor, stupid and lazy to keep any copies of that first batch. But then again, it was just a 16-page xeroxed rag--who'd know the difference between a sample of that first batch of 300 and one that was printed fresh this week and xeroxed onto copy paper?

I think I printed 500 copies of Crank #2, though I'd have to dig the receipt out of storage to confirm that. I gave the job to the Hare Brothers of Philadelphia on the recommendation of that son-of-a-cunt Jeff Fox. They were good, basic printers; they also handled the 1000 or so copies of Crank #3 that I needed.

I think I have 10 or so copies of Crank #2 sitting in a box somewhere, and I know I've got about 20 copies of Crank #3. I try not to dip into that stash; I do so only for good friends who request a copy. (Usually, though, I simply run out a fresh laser print, which is quite an ass-pain since I've lost so many of the shitty fonts I used to produce those issues.) I don't sell those back issues, and I certainly don't show them to anyone interested in my writing.

Those first three issues of Crank are to some degree embarrassing. That's the way of the aggressive writing life. Those writers who are forever building their portfolio of samples will never understand. They are the ones who will never challenge their pop-cultural environments; they will never slaughter the sacred cows nor rape the media darlings in the ass. I've always been dedicated to not being one of those useless, weightless, forgotten assholes.

Nonetheless, I can't believe some of the things I wrote, some of the opinions I spat out so violently. Not that I disagree with my younger self--I'm just lightly shocked that I was so convinced that I should put it all in print and distribute it to the world. That it was a mandate.

I suppose I haven't changed much, despite my seeming respectability and--god help those who believe this--stability. Flipping through those pages, though, I'm glad with all of it. I feel good about it. Well, most of it: There are a few things I'd consider omitting or fixing (like a few "its" versus "it's" typos), but I won't. That wouldn't be right, get me?

While planning the first of issue Crank, sitting in my bunker-style bedroom on Spruce St. in Philadelphia, half a block from the true West Philly Badlands, I argued the utility of pseudonymous writing. I already knew the kind of things I'd be saying, the language I'd use and the de rigueur contrarian stance I had already adopted in the early drafts of those prototypical pieces. The name "Marlin Rubric" appeared on the masthead for one or two proofs. If I remember correctly, I listed Marlin and myself as co-editors. That's a trick from high school when, as a 15-year old BBS instigator, I didn't want too many people to know that I was the asshole who was constantly provoking people on local message boards. "Rip Curl" was my own, "official" handle (now called a "screen name"); "Crimson Jackal" (itself stolen from a friend's D&D character sheet; oh, how teen-dramatic we were) was my alter ego who started fights and ranted and raved. When one curious fellow BBSer became too nosy and connected the two handles by comparing sign-in logs, I invented a friend, Gerard Madison, who lived in the next town but was often at my house to use the modem. He, I claimed, was the real "Crimson Jackal." The ruse served its purpose: I was able to continue provoking people, yet never had to answer for my actions in person.

Such was my original plan for "Marlin Rubric." Two things stopped me from carrying it out. First, it was just so pussy. Anything I could say in print, I should say in person, right? I wasn't 15 years old, and to act like I was would be ridiculous. Second, what if Crank actually became popular? What if Crank became a large magazine with a large following? Wouldn't I feel like a fucking chump for not putting my real name on it? I'd be stuck explaining, "No, Marlin Rubric isn't available to write for Film Threat. But I am, because I wrote everything but was too much of a fucking puss to stand behind those dirty words and rude thoughts. Um... hello? Chris? Hello??"

While Crank never became such a large magazine, the calls did come from the likes of Film Threat (my thanks and apologies to Chris Gore; I was flattered by his attention and pained that I never managed to contribute anything). I've also made something of a writing career, modest as it may be: my bi-monthly column in the UK-based Fortean Times, my sporadic pieces in New York Press and those countless other zine appearances have convinced me that modest success suits me just fine. Point being, I'm proud that I chose to put my name on that first issue of Crank. In all honesty, all kidding aside, that first, 16-page issue changed my life. How many inanimate objects carry such legacy?

For everyone who hopped on this wagon a little late, I'm reprinting the complete pages of Crank, issues one, two and three. More than just filling out this book, I'm trying to prove a point: Zines are disposable. No matter the immortality granted by the internet, zines are not timeless. They are not literature. They should not be compiled into books. They should not be collected like comic books. They should not live beyond their context.

Zines are a reflection of a certain point in time. Sure, years after their publication, many are anthropologically and pop-culturally interesting, but they're not nearly as valuable nor viable as many zines pundits--often, the very people hawking the plastic-wrapped back issues and rehashed book compilations--would lead you to believe.

So I'm not reprinting these first three issues to prove them valuable. Quite the contrary: by reprinting them within the issue-by-issue structure (i.e., not in a collected work, outside of the publication schedule), I'm essentially throwing them out. I'm giving them away for free, thus reducing (and, hopefully, eliminating) their potential value as back issues. I'm reprinting them as a demonstration of growth; as an exercise in progress. I want them to be seen; I want to be ridiculed for them.

In total, there are 84 pages of content reprinted here. Don't bother criticizing me for running up the page count. Without the reprints, you're holding more than 60 pages of new content, which is more than the average 80-page zine if you remove all the Epitaph and Matador adverts. The only criticism I'll entertain should concern the increased cover price. I mean, ten bucks? Blatant cash-in, that.

But enjoy. Really, please, enjoy.