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Crass Market Media
Embrace the Indie Revolution
(if you’re not interested in a story, scroll until you see the next purple heading)
Sometimes I get these nightmares. In them, the entire publishing industry has switched from an institution that values storytelling and unique voices into a veritable Stepford of sycophants and ruthless capitalists. In these dreams, I’m standing in the middle of a large ballroom packed, shoulder-to-shoulder, with the most elite industry writers, editors, marketers, and publishers. The fem-presenting among them are dressed in long, flowing, satin gowns in champagnes and creams or luxurious velvets in jewel tones that make one want to dive into the fabric and never come out for how soft and smooth it is. The masc-presenting individuals stand around with highball glasses in the most expertly tailored tuxedos. Some are conventional black, while others are more daring in the same jewel tones as their fem counterparts. Still, some are clad in the most intricate brocade suits that suggest a bit of whimsy with their floral patterns.
Though I am underdressed for the occasion (I have opted for my usual uniform of black jeans and a T-shirt with a cat on it), I get the sense that I’ve truly made it. I have toiled in amateurism for years, and I’ve finally grown claws to dig into the sides of the pit I’ve lived in most of my life and pull myself out. I flag down a waiter who looks me up and down, his expression a sludge of disdain, and procure a cocktail. From another, I nab some sort of shrimp hors devour, skewered by a tiny piece of bamboo and cradled in a cocktail napkin. I have no idea what this food item is, but shrimp happens to be my current safe food, so I slip the pink bug into my mouth and chew while looking for the next tray of unidentifiable food.
Suddenly, there’s a fanfare, and the crowd turns toward the stage in eerie unison. A spotlight is projected on a lone microphone, and an older woman steps up to it, glass in hand, lipstick on her teeth, and a smile that warps her face into a drab, beige puddy. She speaks in reverence and excitement, but I don’t pay attention because my fellow guests all have the same expression. Each beaming smile broad and forced so that their skulls might very well fracture if given enough time. As the woman’s giddy giggles fill the room, bouncing off the china and stemware, more waiters circulate with trays of glasses, each containing a liquid I can only identify because I grew up with it: it’s Hi-C fruit punch. I can nearly taste the chemicals at the back of my throat as guest after guest accepts their glass, their attention never faltering from the stage.
“When Sovereign signals, we will all drink our special celebratory punch,” the woman ejaculates, her excitement turning to euphoria.
Special celebratory punch? You mean the stuff you get from the soda fountain at El Pollo Loco?
As I’m caught in my confusion, an elated hush sweeps over the room as a man takes the stage. He has glasses and a turtle-like smile. His blue eyes don’t really sparkle, and his sweater belies a certain air of “don’t give a fuck” that only the privileged few can enjoy. As he nears the mic, his features become clearer and clearer and the guests all squirm in anticipation.
I think…no I know…
It’s James Patterson.
Too Long. Get to the point.
I’ve created a small independent publisher and zine distro committed to championing the cause of a more democratized publishing industry. For far too long, talented, hardworking artists and writers have labored in the fields of anonymity and amateurism. I believe the way through the muck and mire is through independently published zines.
Hence…
