I not only didn’t get the job, but it was obvious the man could barely keep a straight face. This wasn't exactly what I had in mind when I said I wanted to make people laugh. He thought I was an immature dumbass and, of course he was right. I now know I should've just stuck to my original story: to pursue a career in the field of newspaper circulation, and to advance through the ranks with hard work and the development of loyalty and respect from all the paperboys I manage. But he broke me down and I told him the truth.

I was thoroughly humiliated, and set out to prove the fucker wrong. I started cranking out submissions to the National Lampoon, Mad, David Letterman, Johnny Carson, etc., brazenly rejecting the concept of working my way up from the bottom. Predictably, they all figured out I was an immature dumbass too, undoubtedly adding untalented to the profile for good measure. I did "sell" a couple of scripts to a local comedy show called Dick's Half Hour, but it went off the air after about three weeks due to manifest shittiness, and the fifty bucks they owed me must've got lost in the mail. I started to get discouraged.

Then I discovered zines.

I used to drive to Columbus, Ohio to buy records every few months, and a hipster guy I sorta knew asked me to pick him up a copy of The Offense Newsletter during one of my trips. I had no idea what he was talking about, but I tracked it down and bought an extra copy for myself. It was a crudely typed, photocopied, and stapled-in-the corner fanzine about the artists who recorded for the British label 4AD. I had little interest in the subject, but the writing was good and passionate, and the whole idea of self-publishing was like a kick to the head for me.

Hell, I'd do it too. I'd show all those assholes I didn't need them. I'd just do it myself. And I did. That is to say, I did it myself -- I'm still trying to show them. But, after coming dangerously close to calling my new publication Cancer: Pro and Con, I pumped out the first issue of The West Virginia Surf Report during a single sleepless night in 1984, or '85 -- who the hell knows? The name was inspired by an absurd little book called Trout Fishing in America, which had very little to do with trout fishing in America. Absurdity appealed to me in those days, especially.

I sent copies to everyone on the Offense zine contact list and, to my surprise, people actually seemed to like it. My little humor sheet was met with a degree of respect and contemplation I hadn’t anticipated. I received copies of other cool homemade publications in trade, along with friendly and encouraging letters from interesting people all over the country -- and I was hooked. After all the cold rejection, this was like a shot of heroin to me. And that monkey is still dancing on my back to this day.

Now through the miracle of the Internet, you can read all those rare old bedroom-produced issues of The Surf Report (as well as the newer not-rare-at-all editions) from the comfort of your cubicle, while being paid by your employer -- without all the pesky distractions of shoddy photocopying and poor layout. It’s a wonderful time to be alive! If you choose to read them, please feel free to mumble to yourself, “People actually thought this was good!?” It’s a natural and healthy reaction. Hopefully, however, you’ll notice the quality improving as the issue numbers get higher.

And so, with no further delay, let’s get to it. Shall we?

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