Jun 23, 2006
PANTSLESSNESS IS KILLING ME

PIGS, being an international Zine Superstar means that my life has changed in ways you could not imagine. Or, if you also photocopy a zine and mail it out to over ten people, maybe you do understand, in which case I fear you and challenge you to a fight.

The joy of being an unseen writer behind a zine, for me at least, is being known by hundreds of people across the globe who wouldn't know you if you sat down next to them on the subway. Maybe I have sat next to readers of TIS, who knows? I dig that. I don't really like meeting people, and meeting people who read The Inner Swine is usually just awkward, because of the pantsless thing. Not because I actually emerge from Camp Levon without pants on, but because my zine personae makes people expect me to be someone that I'm not.

Your Humble Editor in the zine is not really me. It's a character. No human could drink as much as him and spend all his resources building an ineffective underground empire and survive, people. While no one believe I have teams of assassins or a huge underground complex, people seem to believe that I drink incessantly and often stumble about pantsless, all because of a rather unfortunate running joke I have kept up in the pages of TIS for far, far too long. Whenever I meet people familiar with TIS, they inevitably expect me to stumble into the room with a bottle in one hand, my free hand holding up grubby, hobo-like pants, growling out pithy, inebriated witticisms. When I show up dressed, sober but eager to drink, and boring as all hell, there is an awkward moment or two where everyone involved regrets setting up the meeting and wonders how they can escape with minimal embarrassment. Granted, around this point I start drinking heavily (or, better said, more heavily) in order to burn away the shame, but usually my pants stay on and the worst that happens is I make a fool of myself trying to be funny.

Some of this may be my inferiority complex, certainly, but some of it is real. The other day, for example, I was contacted by Josh from Rated Rookie fame to do an interview for Punk Planet, which is planning a zine-themed issue. Flattering, of course, to be interviewed, but walking to the bar where we'd agreed to meet I felt dull and boring. And I am dull and boring. And I got the feeling, all through my conversation with Josh (who is a fun and interesting guy) that he was disappointed that I was so normal. That I didn't show up red-faced and incoherent, that a team of people led by TIS Security Chief Ken West didn't arrive midway through the interview, seize me, and threaten Josh with physical harm if he published my ramblings. Instead, we chatted about zines, I had nothing earth-shattering to say (I don't think), and that was that—although I did drink an entire pitcher of sangria by myself, so that has to count for something.

This is only going to get worse when The Electric Church comes out next year. I'll be expected to do most of the promotion of the book myself, like a sucker, which means the usual turtle-on-its-back struggle with readings, conventions, and other unhappy moments in this author's life. Since I am largely unknown in the world, chances are the people who are lured into attending these things won't be particularly disappointed, but if any people who read TIS show up, they may end the event by burning down the building. They're going to expect me to appear in a clown suit, saying insane things, and in reality I'm going to slink up to the podium or whatever, terrified, mumble through an uninspiring performance (I always realize just how terrible my writing is when I have to read it out loud), and then slink back into the safety of the crowd.

I have been able, sometimes, to make a creditable showing at a reading or other public appearance, usually if I'm allowed to drink a little beforehand. While getting your courage from a hip flask is probably a bad sign, believe me when I say that braver men than I have resorted to a nip or two when faced with a hundred blank, unsmiling faces, waiting to be impressed. Showing up tipsy works pretty well for zine-related things and small readings where no one is really expected to show up anyway, and the press isn't going to care one way or another about you. But if anything at all goes my way and someone actually pays attention to The Electric Church, showing up sweaty and slurry will probably do more harm than good. Oh, there'll still be a nip of the ole' Glenmorangie before bounding onto stage to face the crickets and empty seats, but I don't think tripping over my own pants as they fall and passing out is the right way to promote my book. Unless. . .unless it's so genius that I can't see it. Maybe becoming that author who passes out pantsless at every reading is the way to get noticed in this cruel, hard world.

Maybe not. I've been pantsless in TIS for years, and no one's cared so far.

Besides, it would just perpetuate this horrible expectation people have of me to be incoherent and alcoholic. It may seem easy to be consistently incoherent and alcoholic, but you'd be wrong—it takes a lot of back-breaking effort to inspire this kind of faith in your own incompetence and incontinence. I just wish being thought of as an incontinent alcoholic carried a little more prestige, and a little more marketing buzz. As it is I'm still considering publishing under a pen name and hiring an actor—maybe someone pretty, like George Clooney.