He Ain't A Whore

Know what I've been doing for the last two-plus years? Oh, same as you, I guess: getting married, getting separated, watching my father recover from a debilitating stroke and heart attack, working a ball-breaking full-time job, mourning my dear, dead grandmother and thinking about how I could get Crank the fuck out of my life. As you can see, I've been busy, know what I mean? Who's got time for a proper zine scuttling when one's marriage is crumbling, one's job is kicking one's ass and beloved family members are reminding one of their own mortality? And that's not to mention the financial problems. Yow. Only $1500 left on the credit cards, then I tackle that $8K IRS debt.

Declaring bankruptcy, much like group therapy and sobriety, is for pussies.

The original plan was to see Crank #7 on the streets by Spring, 1998. I had every intention of mailing out ad kits to every rinky-dink record label in the world, much as I'd done for issues five and six, but whenever I thought about it, I just couldn't. Somewhere along the way, I seemed to have lost the ability to entertain music-industry types who were interested in Crank.

Know what the word "publicist" translates to in French? "Scumbag." All you indie-label publicists out there: Don't kid yourselves. You're scumbags. Worse, you're salesmen. Salesmen in used clothing. You're in the business of selling your product to me. You all so desperately wanted me to listen to your releases or see your bands at showcases and then write about them. To what end? To sell more records? No. A zine review--and, why not, as a nod to my former-music-industry former-wife: even college-radio airplay--simply doesn't translate into sales. It translates into you keeping your measly, little job for another few weeks. The more clippings you collect, the less likely it is that yours will be the first $15,000 salary to get cut when the shitty, no-talent band fails to sell those break-even 2,500 copies.

Well. With an attitude like that, I knew my advertising pledge drive might be less than successful. Then, another idea: I would sell all the ad space in the issue--I was allowing for some 14 pages total, including the back cover--to one advertising agency, who would then parcel out the space to one or more clients. Unfortunately, my first and only choice, Philadelphia's Gyro Worldwide--my longtime hook-up for occasional freelance writing jobs--was unable to identify any clients who might conceivably opt for an association with Crank. That was something of a surprise, since Gyro's bread and butter are cigarettes and booze. Ain't they vices?

I should've solicited the hate groups. They've got balls and budget.

So things weren't going according to plan, and shortly thereafter, I found myself unable to make my minimum credit card payments. I sure as sugar wasn't in any position to cough up six thousand clams to print Crank #7, so this thing languished on my laptop until the money became available.

Oh, and yeah: Spare me your whiney, unfounded, tired, typical "sell-out" arguments, you hypocritical, self-righteous, short-sighted, spineless, tit-sucking, ass-licking motherfuckers. Don't you dare--not even for a split second--think that the fiber of my soul is woven from anything other than an unquestionable, unwavering, non-negotiable integrity. I respect the hooker who freely admits to sucking cock for cash. She may not be any more innocent than one who eats seed in the back alley and later feels shame for her actions, but at least she knows what she is. And I know what I am--I'm a once-low-living asshole who managed to find modest success by publishing a zine. I'm just another would-be writer jerkoff who had a laser printer at his disposal and enough scrounged cash to print a few hundred copies. But at least I admit what I am: an opportunistic whore.

Don't lie to me, you fucks. You're more shameless than I ever was. And while I'm at it: all you "media buyers" out there can eat my ass. No, I don't have a presskit. No, I don't feel like compiling my reviews and sending a sample copy. No, I won't blow you over the phone for a $50 advertisement. I don't feel like invoicing you. I won't accept your 60-day terms. And, finally: No, I won't write about your fucking bands if you place an ad. (Number one ad-for-edit culprit: Mute.)

Inspired by my dear friend Orianne, I decided to produce 250 copies of this thing by hand. [Note: The actual count came in at 265.] Photocopies, binding glue and a stack of covers. A bunch of us put them all together one Sunday afternoon while slugging down cheap-champagne mimosas, then cheap white wine, then whatever beer was the fridge and finally whatever each of us chose from my well-stocked liquor cabinet. [Note: I am not a fortune-teller. I had assumed that's how they would be assembled, but then ultimately did much of the work alone, with a couple nights of binding help from Orianne. It just wasn't a group-project kind of thing.] I'm not selling the copies directly (well, not at this point; I took orders for 75 copies via the website but that's because I needed that cash up front to pay to ship the rest). Atomic Books and See Hear will each get 50 copies, while I'll use the remaining 75 for personal and professional friends. [Note: Atomic Books got 25, since he's about to go out of business. See Hear will ultimately get 75, not 50.] Once they're sold out, I'll relaunch the website (crank.com, duh), which will feature complete reprints of every issue of Crank, as well as a few other tricks I've got up my sleeve. That will continue until I get bored.

Then, I will disappear from the zine world, leaving a luke-warm legacy of inspired mediocrity. But at least I tried my best, and I never once forgot what this is all about: my integrity.