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Zine Reviews: Bust & Bitch
"If you don't have something
nice to say, don't say anything at all." In my head, my mother unendingly
exhorts me to "be nice." And for most of my life, I'll admit, I've been so
concerned about what people think about me, I pretty much followed that advice,
being too paranoid to offend anyone. But now that I'm contributing to the
publication that specializes in pissing people off, I suppose it's my duty
to be brutally honest, regardless of whose feelings get hurt. So of course,
for my first column, I decided I'd have to write about a zine that rubbed
me the wrong way. However, in the interest of fair journalism, I thought it
might be nice to do a scholarly compare and contrast. So I strolled over to
the knocked-down-a-peg, no-longer-on-St. Marks Place zine mecca, See Hear,
and plunked down some cash for two bitch rags.
Bust
Bitch rags, you ask? Okay, more specifically Bust, a girlie-grrrl zine, and Bitch,
an angry feminist zine. Can you guess which one irks me? If you guessed Bust,
you're right. Here's why. And please excuse me if I ramble. Last year I attended
a zine fair and met one of the editors of Bust, Celina Hex. That's not her
real name. Her co-editor, Betty Boob, uses a pseudonym as well. That's reason
number one. I have a real problem with pseudonyms. I think they're chicken.
Ms. Hex's response, when I asked, "Why the pseudonyms?" was that women tend
to to write more honestly (read: divulge their deepest, darkest, most embarrassing
secrets) when they use a fake name. Yeah. Unless they happen to be Susie Bright
or Courtney Love. That's reason number two. Here we have what I can't resist
calling a giggling clique of gals—whether they've actually met each other
or not is irrelevant; it's all in the tone—engaging in the female equivalent
of locker room talk, and somehow only the famous names are real names. I guess
once you're a famous writer/rock star/sex diva, you don't need to hide behind
a pseudonym. Or maybe your name just helps sell zines. Whatever. It's also
annoying that a publication with a print run of, like fucking thousands and
professional quality reproduction values still considers itself a zine. At
least Conde Nast hasn't snatched them up and retooled their schtick with a
few focus group approved alterations. Of course, in today's Lilith Fair and
chicks with a guitar saturated culture, it wouldn't take many changes to make
this zine mass public consumption-ready.
Reason number three is
the insipid "Boys are yucky" banter that passes for cultural commentary. The
only male writers are emasculated wimps or, in the case of the current issue,
Girlfriends, ex-MTV and Manhattan Community Cable star Jake Fogelnest. He's
the "Boy du Jour," and he expounds on women and men being friends. Seems he
has quite a few female friends who are "older women." Not suprising since
he's only 19 years old.
When he talks about sexual tension, it's pretty hard
to take him seriously. I mean, when I was 19, I felt sexual tension between
me and, like, just about every human being I came in contact with. So his
argument that yes, men and women can be friends, falls a little flat.
Although the poignancy
level in Bust is wildly off the charts, sprinkled amidst all the annoying
"girls are groovy" garbage are some amusing and stingingly true tales of adolescent
angst. But with other offerings like "Six Reasons Why Your Girlfriend Is Better
Than A Boyfriend" and "My First Gay Boyfriend," you know you're in for a hormone-inspired,
crying jag, synchronized menstrual cycles kinda reading experience. Which
leads to the real question: What, exactly, is the wankability of this zine?
Well, the gal-positive contributors to the publication would probably be scandalized,
positively scandalized, I tell you (or stimulatedÑyou can spot these sex bombs
like they're sportin' strobe lights) that the question is even being asked.
But since your life probably revolves around which brand of Kleenex mops come
off your belly with the least amount of skin irritation, I'll tell you.
If imagining a roomful
of half naked chicks stuffing their faces, talking about sex and motherhood
and all that other chick shit, the possibility of Sapphic lust tantalizingly
hanging in the air, well then, Buster, buy yourself a Bust! And there is a
certain sick "discovering your mom's sanitary napkins" sort of thrill associated
with so much feminine secret spillage. When it doesn't irritate the hell out
of me, I can actually enjoy a paragraph or two. But if you're looking for
a dirty chick-generated jerk-off read, don't make the same mistake as the
poor schmuck who wrote them a note: "Is Bust a sex mag? If so e-mail me a
copy please!" The editors' response? "Oy." That just about says it all.
Bitch
As for the promised compare and contrast, well, Bitch is a more honest publication.
They are what they promise: Feminist Response to Pop Culture. They rag about
advertising, plastic surgery, sisterhood on television and being fat. One
piece was a particularly entertaining rant on guys who grab their crotches.
So I suppose I don't need to tell you that this one is definitely not going
to get your dick hard. Ever. Unless you're a sick fuck who gets turned on
by the thought of a thousand butch dykes beating you senseless. And, uh, if
this applies to you, please contact me immediately! I'd buy Bitch again just
to get a heapin' helping of all the shit I think from day to day but don't
have the time or energy to put down on paper. God bless these angry chicks!
They're unapologetically crabby. I like that. And they sound like they'd be
way more fun at an all girl sleepover than all those crybabies at Bust.
* One small footnote: The bitches behind Bitch contribute to Bust. Their righteous
indignation is refreshing in between all the rah-rah, you-go-girl phlegm.
** Another small footnote: There's a "One-Handed Read" column in Bust that
purports to be a "jill-off" story, and the one in this issue was actually
quite good. But I can't imagine getting horny enough to "jill off" reading
all the depressing recollections of downtrodden teenage years editorial wrapped
around the single dirty story.
*** Lastly: It isn't lost on me that Bust's Girlfriends Issue touches quite
a few times on female competitiveness. There isn't a chick out there who wouldn't
stab a fellow "sister" in the back for a man (or woman, if that's her inclination),
a job, an apartment or the perfect little black dress—myself included. And
all the female bonding in the world isn't gonna change it.
[Written in the late-90s...I think!]
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