Me and Zines (1)

I was 18. It was dark, cold, I needed to get some photocopies done. Fortunately, I lived on the Upper West Side of New York where stores ever desperate for customers stayed open late. I made my way down to a hole-in-the-wall copy shop on West 96th & Broadway. Even at that age I supported the small businessman. And the guy that owned this place was not easy to support. He was an exceptionally good looking man, probably in his mid-thirties, who always looked like he was sucking a lemon. He was did good work at competitive prices; the look seemed to be a unfortunate permanent condition. When I opened the door the brightness of the fluorescent lights blinded me for a second or two. After I blinked a couple of times I saw Ebenezer at the counter, and a young woman sitting on the floor surrounded by tall stacks of photocopies. She had a heavy duty stapler in her ink stained hands. She was making 8 1/2" x 10" booklets, just one simple staple in the upper left hand corner, and stuffing them in envelopes. As I stood waiting my turn I wondered, "Were you born looking that way?" I didn't know or care to know his name; in my mind he was Ebenezer Pickle Puss. I handed my project to Ebenezer, who looked almost pleased that I had carefully written out my needs. It saved us both the pain of having to speak to one another. "Here, read this while you wait." The young woman held out one of her home-made magazines. "Thank you." It was simply titled *"The Hannah Sweet Newsletter" It had stories about her life, reviews, interviews with some off-beat writers and artists. It was simple black & white photocopies, done on a typewriter (all we had back then), with photos. Me of the secret dreams, one of which was to publish my own magazine, was impressed that someone would put themselves out there like this. No slick cover. No color photos. No advertising. Nothing. She handed me a strip of paper. "If you're interested in subscribing here's my information." "Thank you." Ebenezer handed me by bag. I handed him the cash. He counted out my change and curtly nodded his thanks. I nodded my your welcome, said good-bye to Ms. Sweet and left the shop. Going down the street I marveled at the audacity of Ms. Sweet. She asked people to pay for a home-made magazine - and they did it. That was the winter of 1979. Fast forward to the early months of 2017. I'm living in Cape Cod now, on a visit to New York, and waiting for a friend at the Sunshine Movie Theater. I'm way early, but there's a free table in the cafe area. I head to the counter for a coffee. While waiting I notice a booklet with a eye-catching front cover and name: Psycho Moto Zine. There was a small purple feather glued to the cover. Touching it actually produced a dull sort of electric-like shock from the tips of my fingers up my arms. Images of that long-ago winter night at the copy shop, me flipping through Hannah Sweet's newsletter, I asked the counter person if there was a charge for the magazine. "Help yourself." I thanked him and carried my coffee and the zine back to my seat. By time my friend showed up I had read the entire thing. I also looked up it's creator Ethan Minsker on my smartphone - he's seriously fascinating. A search for zines in general revealed an astonishing variety of topics. I needed to get some of them in my hands. So... TO BE CONTINUED *not her actual name