After two years of running The Main Street WhizBang, Newmarket's first (and last) underground newspaper, we found that we had lost an entire fifty cents.
The bankruptcy was awful.
People were diving out of basement windows.
One of our lady writers commited suicide by impaling herself on a mushroom.
(Or is it that she had some mushrooms?)
I lost all my groupies, this the unkindest cut of all.
(You want to get laid? Start an underground newspaper. You get chess broads and ladies in blue leotards and net stockings. Underground newspaper office, replete with espresso machine, is also a great place to pick up poetic guys for the chess broads).
But there's such a thing as having too much retro fun.
You wanna get your office burned down and the cops giving you heat?
Start an underground newspaper.
But you have to plan for disaster. You might lose fifty cents.
You might also step on the toes of the powers that be.
The incumbent mayor, against whom I once ran said, "Don't buy ads from Ivan...He's an as*hole.
I got tired of going to all the merchants to collect money anyway.
Print adertising and graphics got to be a drag.
My waitress at the pub said "Stay small. If you get large, you go crazy."
Hell, this was too much like being overground.
So we packed it in.
At least we showed it could be done in ultra-conservative, white-bread Newmarket.
Sure as hell had my fifteen minutes.
But buying all those asbestos suits got to be expensive.
The landlord made money on the fire insurance, but he wasn't sure if that was the royal road to riches.
My advice to budding" Georgia Strait" underground newspaper editors:
Municipal politics is dangerous.
Trespassers will be incinerated.
I am going through major depression over here and can't seem to get up the mental acuity to put my Schomoozer award up on a proper post.
Correspondent Josie, who has been so kind as to help me with the reproduction above, has offered me detailed instructions on putting up the award, but all she got from me was a Wooodstock &%$#%%%%&^%$#%%%%%%%%%.
So she didn't persist, realizing the the old neo-hippie had probably had one mushroom too many.
I have tried to get my techie to help, but he has just started his own business and his time is precious.
So here is my brain, stuck in second gear, stuck in the Sixties forever. mailto:&&amp;&&&&&&&%%%%%%*&^%$#@%%%%%%%%