Weird Montgomery

Editor’s Note: I have been reticent to post here recently because doing so would involve interrupting the astonishingly good series of posts by Kate about the waste stream. Fortunately, with the power of the Interwebs, all of her brilliant posts can be linked in a single place, and I can post my thoughts on that rare encounter that makes us feel just a fraction less Lost in Montgomery. But before I do, seriously, go read her series. It’s probably the best stuff we’ve ever had on this site.

When I was growing up just south of Montgomery, it was “the big city” to me. My small town had a college, but that was about it. Montgomery had the book stores. Montgomery had the comic shops. Montgomery had two indoor shopping malls, which contained stores where music could be purchased. For the rare “fancy” date, Montgomery had the Olive Garden. My narrow horizons were made slightly less narrow by driving 45 minutes north. It’s laughable to someone who grew up in a place like Chicago or Atlanta, but even a city like Montgomery could have hegemonic cultural and economic power over the surrounding provinces.

This was especially true in the days before the Internet, when access to a well-curated book store or music shop could represent a portal into a vast universe of new and complicated ideas. Today, the most outlandish conspiracy theories and subversive concepts are available to anyone in the most desolate and rural areas. But in the late 1980s and early 1990s, we knew a kind of hunger for novelty (and edginess) that is likely unimaginable to today’s young people.

Thus it was that I came to covet a publication called Discombobulation, which was acquired on periodic trips to Montgomery. I still have those tiny black and white photocopied bits of the DIY ‘zine era. It suggested punk rock, skateboarding, and a big “fuck you” to the anti-fun normals who feared the threat posed to the corporate economic order posed by dyed hair. The content might be foolishly naive if I were to dig those issues out now, but it represented something provocative to me then, and most importantly, it suggested that I could make my own media.

Although I had access to a copy machine, I never could figure out who else would conspire with me on such a project. But the concept of self-publishing was embedded long before the technology that makes this little essay possible.

That’s why I was excited this year to discover Weird Montgomery, a physical hand-out, a ‘zine, a thing you could pass around to your friends. It’s online too, sure, in a format governed by Facebook and Herr Zuckerberg’s trillion dollar life monitoring kit. But I was mostly excited that they were making a print edition, leaving them around town in comic shops and bars, hopefully inspiring some teenager from a few towns away. IMG_3963

Let me be clear: When I say “they,” I’m not sure who I’m talking about. It’s not clear who publishes Weird Montgomery, and I’m ok with that. The current issue I’m holding says that it is a product of collaboration with the Alabama Prison Arts and Education Project (APAEP), which is already a cool thing. Good job Auburn. I’ll give you that one.

It’s a really small thing. It’s really just five pages, not counting the cover and the back. But it’s there. It’s in my hand. I can save it and show it to someone.

Maybe they’ll change the format and do more pages and staple it together. Maybe their budget is limited. There are no ads. It seems like a labor of love, produced by someone (or some folks) who just want to have a space for ideas to circulate. IMG_3965

The Facebook page is sporadically updated, with a lot of it being publicity for events around town. It’s certainly good to have a curated event calendar, but I was hoping to see a bit more of the creative content online — things that wouldn’t fit in the ‘zine.

Maybe it’ll grow. Maybe it’ll vanish, as authors graduate, get frustrated, or simply move on to other adventures. It’s already infinitely better than any of the other “free periodicals” that you’ll often find around town in bars and restaurants.

We’re still here, lifting at the edges of a city that we want to be better. And we’re heartened to see that — at least for now — someone else is doing the same.

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