Jul 31, 2007
Hipster Doofus

PIGS, as of May 2007 I've been putting this zine out for twelve years. I'm no longer the spry, devil-may-care twentysomething I once was; I'm married, I own property, and I know what in fuck escrow is. Some would say I'm too old to be still publishing a zine, but some would also say I'm too old to wander my house in the nude sipping frequently from an unmarked bottle, humming “Funkytown” as I go. I have no time for such people, who hate our freedom. Some use their freedom to cure cancer or create amazing works of art. I use our freedom to put out a recycled batch of pantsless jokes and warmed-up fiction every three months. Who are you to hate our freedom?

Still, it can't be denied that a lot of zines—better zines—have come and gone in the past twelve years. Recently, the famed Punk Planet announced it was closing shop. Whether or not PP has been a zine these past twelve years is arguable—certainly its been a pretty slick magazine in recent memory. But whether or not it fit some narrow definition of the word, I think PP had always embodied the spirit that also inspires zines, and it's pretty sad to see it go. Granted, I always regarded PP mainly as a source of reviews of my own zine, reprinted with witty commentary in the hallowed pages of TIS, but even so, the world is a dimmer place without PP. The question is, how can lame, inebriated and only partially-talented idiots like myself just chug along endlessly, repeating himself, accidentally reprinting entire articles and no one even notices, and being incredibly dull on a quarterly basis for years, while really great magazines that actually had business plans and a sincere determination to make the world better, like Punk Planet and Clamor, go under?

Simple: It's my low-level Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder. Self-diagnosed, but who are you to doubt my ailments? Hater.

I like me some ruts, people. I am not adventurous; I like to do the same things at the same times every day. My routine can change, but slowly, like plate tectonics—chunks of time rubbing up against each other and drifting incredibly slowly towards a shift. On a day-to-day basis, Your Humble Editor here is like Rain Man. I like to have my coffee at the same time every morning, from the same place. I like to do the same little rituals before getting down to work. I like to have lunch at the same time every day, and I like to do certain things at certain times. I'm not kidding, I like me some ruts. I get into a good rut and I see no reason whatsoever to change, and get downright cranky when someone tries to make me. As I move through this existence, I am slowly etching channels into the earth which will puzzle anthropologists for centuries.

This helps because the zine has definitely become one of the biggest ruts in my life. For over twelve years I have compiled 3-4 issues a year, without fail. The thought of not creating an issue of The Inner Swine is simply impossible—my brain locks up and refuses to contemplate it. Putting out the zine has become one of the normal operations of my existence—I breathe, eat, excrete, and publish a zine. I could as easily stop breathing as stop putting out the zine, get it?

Thus, no amount of failure, obscurity, or drop in readership can deter me. My strange psychology forces me to keep going, in the same way once I start a project—painting the kitchen, for example—I have to keep going until I'm finished, even if it takes me all night, even if my fingers are broken, bleeding stubs when I am finished. Since there is no “finished” for something like a zine, I just keep going and going.

Now, if TIS were a bigger operation, with other people involved and an actual budget and all that, my compulsiveness would be less of a factor. First of all, people would quickly grow tired of Jeff's McCartney-like determination to Keep Going No Matter What, and other factors—like bills needing to be paid and other people not wanting to keep pouring their time, money, and energy into a dying endeavor—would eventually force me to stop. Since I am blessedly without the meddling influence of other people, however, I can continue to pound out issues of this zine until not even my sainted wife or mother has the mental fortitude to pretend to read them any more!

Now, if I had a true mental condition and spent my time touching everything in the house and repeating phrases three times before I left a room, this might be considered a problem, or perhaps an obstacle to a normal life. But since it manifests itself as a strong reluctance to change anything in my life and a mild obsession with vacuuming, I see no reason to seek professional help and pop some brain-numbing pills. I see my compulsive personality as a benefit—I am a truly, heroically lazy man, friends, and if I didn't have some sort of chemical imbalance in my head forcing me to crawl to the finish line, believe me, nothing would ever get done. I'd still be planning the first issue of this zine, constantly distracted by beer and television commercials.

Some would say that would have been a better world. Naturally, I strongly dislike such people, who, as I have pointed out laboriously, hate our freedom.

So there you have it: Why The Inner Swine persists, and better publications do not. Admit it: You suspected all along it had something to do with me being weird. Haters.