For five years, before
I went broke and half-insane, I was a small press publisher. I started out doing
zines and then moved on to trade paperbacks. In true DIY spirit, I handled
every aspect of the operation myself: the editing, the designing, the printing,
the distribution and the marketing… It was all about becoming the media and my steadfast
determination to take a crackpot idea as far as I possibly could, despite the
lack of money or the fact that I had no business running a publishing company.
For most of my
career as a publisher, I did odd jobs to survive. For a while, I was homeless
and distributed zines out of the trunk of my car. I scammed print jobs from copy
shacks. I stole paper and rarely paid for office supplies. To promote my
titles, I became an internet flamer and through my reckless harassment, drove
one fellow publisher into the loony bin. I finagled. I lied. I browbeat. I was
arrested while soliciting ads. I turned my friends against me. I pissed off writers
for not publishing their work. I pissed off the writers I publisher for not
presenting their work in a way they preferred. I was threatened with multiple
lawsuits, investigated by the State Attorney General and taken to small claims
court by a former partner.
And that’s just
what I can remember. Most of the time I was in a thick haze of self-importance,
fueled by cheap drugs and the effects of untold hours in a small, poorly
ventilated room in a burned out garage staring at a computer monitor until my
eyes bled.
From the beginning
I cultivated notoriety over prestige. I entered the world of publishing guns
a-blazing. I embraced infamy, ready to do anything to crawl out of the muck of
obscurity. It was never my intention to create an innocuous rag that might
impress somebody’s literary-inclined relatives. I wanted to make something that
would get me in trouble.
All the while, I
held onto the delusion that what I was doing was noble: I was promoting
literature. Real literature. Not the crap that was getting published in the New Yorker or the elitist academic lit
journals. The way I looked at it, real literature came out of the trenches of the
workaday existence. Real literature was created by true outsiders, not just those
who could afford MFA degrees. It came from those born to misfortune and raised
in families torn asunder. It rose up from the lost, the mentally imbalanced, the
rude motherfuckers everybody loved to hate, the victims, the sluts, the whores,
the wallflowers, the creeps, the losers, the purveyors of vice, the drunks, the
druggies, the acid casualties, the thieves, the conmen, the liars who make it
up as they go along and the liars who have their reasons for lying.
Real literature
was messy. And if you wanted the grit, you took the grime.
Once I embraced
the role of being a publisher, publishing became my life. I lived to publish. Publishing
was all I thought about, all I talked about and all I wanted to hear about. In
my zeal to publish more and more titles, I assumed more responsibilities than I
was capable of accomplishing. I took on projects that were impractical. I
turned away those that would generate profit. I was a horrible businessman. Not
that it mattered. The small increments of money that showed up in the post
office box were never enough to keep me flush, much less print more titles. What
I earned as a painter, a handyman, a line cook, a bookseller or any one of my
jack trades barely kept me alive. Eventually, I became unemployable. I had my
sights set for loftier goals than maximizing the minimum wage. I just kept pushing
forward, against the will of the universe, filling a catalogue with titles and
announcing future publications, cajoling and lying and making empty promises,
always hoping for the best.
Phony Lid lasted
five years, all by the skin of my teeth. But in the end, I admitted defeat. Not
because I never made any money, achieved any real acclaim or got the
recognition I felt like I deserved—sure, there were some accolades, but who
cares about that? No, I failed because other people’s writing overshadowed the
one story I needed to tell. And that was the story of Phony Lid.
from Piltdownlad #9 - Pamphleteria: The Rise and Fall of Phony Lid
from Piltdownlad #9 - Pamphleteria: The Rise and Fall of Phony Lid
