ABSTRACT
So I wake up one day with a hangover, as usual, and I remember that a chapter I’m supposed to write about fanzines for this book called A Queer Romance is due in about a week, and I hate the word ‘queer’, and I’m just getting over a three-year relationship so I don’t even want to think about the concept of romance, and I practically don’t even read fanzines anymore. I’m not exactly motivated, i.e. So I drag myself out of bed and light up the first of too many cigarettes of the day and sit with my legs crossed and arms akimbo like I’m in a straitjacket or something and stare down into a cup of coffee and wonder what I can possibly say about a movement that no longer seems to be moving. I mean, isn’t that why they call it a movement, because it’s supposed to move?
