Zines

I went to Zine Fest the other day. It was held here in Asheville at the Grey Eagle. A little dark but what a fantastic collection of funky, independent presses, hobbyists and anarchists! About 25 tables. Everything from arts collectives to handmade alt. comic books to punk pamphlets. There was this tragically hip young dude, handsomely tatttoed and pierced; he had a stunning array of mimeographed, folded broadsheets, lots of angry little drawings. I said: “These remind me of early 80s L.A. punk.” His eyes lit up & his chest puffed out. “That’s what I was going for. But, to be exact, it’s more like late ‘70s.”

The whole thing felt so very Detroit. Tough and cool but also open and fluid. So much pride in small pieces made well. There was even a small reading out in the courtyard, some pretty horrible poetry, but one guy stood up on a milk crate and read out his verse with panache.  Had to raise my glass to that. I spent $20 on little chapbooks and silly bumper stickers (“If I had a dollar for every stupid bumper sticker idea...) and handmade art books. Most items between $2 and $5, everyone open to trade. The technology was happily mixed—high tech and low, retro to laser printer, hand lettered to cartoon bubble.

As I was leaving, the older couple in front of me saw that it was raining—a light splatter of thick drops—and cursed their luck. “I don’t have my umbrella,” the woman lamented. I thought, O, how nice. And strolled to my car.