Empty flask in hand, memories lost, good times never known. It’s the tale of an independent publisher, at least this one. Death becomes your friend, faith your enemy. It’s all a blur when flasks empty. And that’s where independent publishing will take you; there, or some other god-damned drug to appease the demons of this addiction. It’s upside downs, 540 degree turns; dynamite burning at both ends. Not many of us fuckers dare grab this stick, much less sleep with it. Maybe it’s just me; maybe it’s the nature of this beast. I really don’t know, I’m just a god-damned fool. All I offer is a warning shot, a flare exposing the danger that swims these waters.

There are shallower waters in this biz, where this beast rarely swims. And if the shallows frighten you, stand ashore, shit out some words, print those terds and go home. That’s your freedom, and mine. But know that too many publishers already wipe their ass to this tune, a cookie-cutter portrayal of the local “scene.” As an independent publisher you have to understand that a scene is a city’s life, its character, its soul. It’s a “scene” that makes Seattle what it is, a void that draws the weirdest of us fuckers here, musicians, artist, and entertainers alike. To cover this phenomena, in any real fashion, demands you wade farther out than waste deep, where danger lurks. So if you think these waters are safe and calm, and this tale is the ramblings of a madman, then I’d say you’re a fool, or mad, yourself.

Regardless of my mental state, I must warn of immense drama, the heartbeat of this beast. I must warn of women and men who stalk; not just you, but your lover. Introductions will be changed, anonymity lost. You will become what you print, not how you are. This beast has no conscious, and feeds at will. I have my own tales of battles that can’t be shared amongst strangers. Nor friends. Near fatal tales of this paper and myself being eaten alive. I still swim these waters, though. Maybe I am mad, but understand that this city hungers for something far grander than well-typed words, witty commentary, and photos of trendy hot spots who advertise therein. Like I said, swim at your own risk.

While this beast lives and hunts, it does sleep. It sleeps when you get involved in the community personally, like fund-raisers and sponsorship, and putting on your own shows. These things are demanded in independent publishing, too. You can pussy-foot around on the shore and do nothing, but that’s not independent publishing, that’s writing a fucking check for newspaper. Any jackass can do that. So you have to put on some shows, at least a few times a year. Then the question is raised, what makes a show successful? Is it the performances, the attendance, the sponsors, the cause? It’s a little of all. Never think otherwise. In our last outing at Jules Maes we only had 30-or-so paying customers. We had hoped for 100. Does that mean the show was unsuccessful? Some promoters would say it does, but they’re in this gig for the money. We’re not. It’s about changing the hearts and minds of people through entertainment, not a gun. And that’s exactly what we did that night. We had about eight yuppies pay the $7 cover and never leave, one winning a $25 gift certificate from Full Throttle (G-Town’s only import beer store). Most walked away with vibrating flash lights and strap-on dildos from Adult Toy Chest, or tattoos from Art Core studios and a $200 water bong from Piece of Mind. And every performer was ready to do it again by night’s end. If that isn’t success, I don’t want to know what is.

It’s not all about fighting the beast and surviving fierce battles in deep waters, there are good times, too. Last month we were invited down to Crypticon, Seattle’s big horror-fest. It was early Saturday afternoon, a little too early for this sinner. Full flask in hand, we took off down south 99 to the Double Tree Hotel in Tuckwilla. Sid Haig from House of 1000 Corpses was speaking, as he is running for president. It’s a spoof of course, but his speech had to be taken seriously, as his message certainly was. He was speaking as we walked through the door, and only a few seats were available at front stage. The wife decided not to venture that deep, deciding to stand in the safety of the back wall curtains. I swam to the front, dodging a film crew floating in the center aisle. I just wanted to see the clown without the makeup. I didn’t want any trouble, but blood was about to hit the water, and the wife must have seen it coming. Some have that gift.

Then Sid began his spew on immigration. I didn’t agree, so I had one question: Can you explain your stance on extreme border control when none of us are native to this land? Meaning, where would all of us be today if the native Americans had shared your feelings? Then I added on top of that, “Native Americans” isn’t even the appropriate term for these natives, as it was the name given by those who crossed their border and took their lands. I don’t believe he expected any questions, certainly not that one. That one question turned into a fire-fight. He began to take heat. Others asked questions about the occupation of Iraq, war with Iran, free trade, social security. I raised my hand again, responding to the free trade question, explaining that this country had flourished on tariffs without personal income tax for over a century. I wanted to know why he felt we couldn’t go back to those founding ideas? I then heard a noise behind me. At first I expected to see Bill Mosley jumping over the seats in full makeup with a knife in hand, coming to slice my throat and end this madness. It was just a disgruntled fan looking at me bit insanely.

Then I raised my hand again. The hands in the air were many; the questions tough and serious. Sid saw me but refused to point my way. I humbly put my hand down. I’d tortured this icon enough for one day. A minute-or-so later he looked back my way, now wearing the same serial killer stare from 1000 Corpses when he said, “Most of all, Fuck You!” before he shot a robber between the eyes. There was no “Fuck You!” Only a strong, “WHAT?” He was aggravated but I had one last question, and that was, “Is this the most questions you’ve ever had?” Before he could answer I added, “After all, this is Seattle.” He laughed for the first time in 30 minutes, saying, “Well, that’s what my plane ticket said.” He then said it was his first time doing this. I apologized for giving the clown such a hard run. A minute he left to a standing ovation. After I stood in line for an autograph and a possible interview. I got the signature and a photo. I’m still waiting on the interview. I know it was a day that will never be forgot, a memory not for sale, like many others since I started this gig. For Sid, I’m sure it’s one he’ll laugh at while he shares a drink with a friend. And for a simpleminded fool like myself, that’s another tale of fear and publishing in Seattle.