Being a poetry junkie and a rabid bibliophile, neither hell nor high-flying gorgeous weather would keep me from attending this year's LitLink Literary Arts Festival in Minneapolis. Eh? What exactly is the LitLink Literary Arts Festival? Well, let's not limit it to a celebration of National Poetry Month (April). Let's not rehash the cliched conventions of Conventions--be they of a zine-ish, comic, or poetic nature. Let's not linger over a dissection of what constitutes the "literary" or even the "arts." Bypassing clinical definition, tired recitation and post-grad-school "I coulda been a po-po-mo contender!" posturing, let's stumble on instead to "festival" and meet the liars, poets, publishers and thieves who gathered in Uptown Minneapolis on the bucolic afternoon of Sunday, April 26, to share their wares and get the word out that--yes!--small, independent presses and D.I.Y. publications are alive and well and living in Minneapolis/St. Paul. Slip on a pair of my rosy spectacles and we'll chase to the cut--

The night before: I'm spending my evening at the copy shack, madly making extras of my zine, broadsides, contact sheets, flyers, etc. The skin on the tips of my fingers is getting that dry, frictiony burn from having handled a few too many hot xeroxes, and my eyes are getting that swollen, liquidy sensation that comes from staring a bit too long at the mesmerizing light of the photocopy machine. Even after hours of manic reproduction fury, I have to fold, collate, and staple my vicious small press offerings. Mr. Calamity is recruited for the price of a cool draught of beer and some ambient Moby on the stereo.

Early Sunday morning, Mr. Calamity and I are still at it, folding like fiends and packing the goods up in cardboard boxes to haul to the festival. We find a spot to park (no mean feat in Uptown Minneapolis) and lug my printed mess of gleeful evil into Calhoun Square in one trip. When I approached the Info Desk to find the location of my table, I was asked if I was a "performer," which delighted me greatly. I'm sure it was my second-hand Lily Dache hat which gave the "theatrical" impression. All the world's a stage and all that, but today I'm with the PRESS!

I found my spot on the second floor of the mall: a (somewhat shockingly) red sign on the table announced, "a gleeful press!" (c'est moi!). I unpacked copies of my zine (current and back issues), carefully set out the two hardcover books I designed and made, stacked up the free broadsides, info, flyers, and business cards. It was an entire hour before the festival officially started, but I was already pretty damn pleased: all I really wanted to do was create a "gleeful" presence. It didn't matter if I sold a single bloomin' thing--to have a table was its own reward!

Mr. Calamity went and got us each a mega-macho-maxxi-mondo-el-grande sized coffee which we peacefully sipped as festival-goers began to drift by. For the remainder of the day, Mr. Calamity was firmly planted behind his portable 'puter, knocking away at the keys. Pale, bald, with deep-set eyes, kind Mr. Calamity was my silent lump of muscle, my small press bouncer--should any itinerant poets or zinesters give me any trouble, he was there to give 'em THE LOOK. (Thankfully, Mr. Calamity's services were not necessary.)

My table was right next to Bomb Threat Checklist--a local biweekly (Yes! Biweekly!) poetry zine. The folks at the BTC table were super friendly and kind. (They also had a really cool handmade "bomb" on their table! I was faintly jealous.) I was very glad my table was next to theirs. They had seen imps (my zine) and I had seen BTC around town so we knew each others' work. We talked about K*nko's, printers, dealing with submissions, and other stuff. Besides the pleasure of setting up my table, talking to the BTC people make the LitLink experience worthwhile. Rarely have I had the chance to talk directly with other local zinesters about the vagaries of publishing. I also had a chance to meet Paul T. Olson, another local zine guy who makes Goth Shmoth, writes reviews for Zine World, and does a multitude of other ziney things. He dropped by to say hullo and give me some copies of his one-shot local review zine: This Town Needs an Enema! (which reviewed imps #4 and other Minneapolis/St. Paul zines & publications). Copies of his review pub were snatched up faster than sausage links at a Church breakfast and I had to confess to passers-by that the titillating Enema! was not mine.

People floated by my "gleeful!" table at a fairly good pace, but there were definitely fewer festival-goers than last year. The weather was unexpectedly beautiful (they had been predicting rain), so I'm sure that kept some folks away--it was too damn nice outside to be in a mall. Laura Winton, festival producer and the main person behind Voices From the Well, a local spoken-word/open-mic publication, stopped to say hidey-ho and ask how everything was going. Carolyn Kuebler from Rain Taxi also made it a point to stop and introduce herself (cool!). I sold a few zines, and lots of people took the free flyers, broadsides, and info sheets. Many were kind enough to compliment me on the name of my press--some even said they had to stop by just because of the name! It made me surprisingly happy. No one bought any books, but many "ooohed" and "aaahed" over their construction. One woman and I agreed that sometimes white paper can be too harsh or even blinding, and we talked about the lovely creamy paper I'd used in my books (Mohawk 70 lb.--it's the color of cream with a splash of coffee, or a vanilla malt).

The bigger presses were downstairs and the "smaller" presses and publications were upstairs. I never did make it down to look at the big boys' stuff, but I did take a spin up top around mid-afternoon and checked out Spout (poetry & fiction), Rain Taxi (book reviews & interviews), Black Hat Press (poetry), Artword Quarterly (poetry), Xexoxial Editions (experimental verbal/visual items), and Voices From the Well (spoken-word/open-mic). Throughout the afternoon, live poetry readings were taking place on the main stage downstairs. When a particularly good reader was up, I'd lean over the railing and take a peek. Also during the course of the day, I had two folks drop by and give me copies of their publications: one was a delightful little poetry zine called either the sound of glass or the rape of narcissus--I'm not sure: the text is a little obscure on this point. But I adore it when folks do kamikaze zine drops, handing their stuff out to whatever soul looks kindly. When the youngster handed me his zine, he kissed his two fingers as he walked away and said, "Peace!" Peace indeed, li'l brother. Strength to your sword arm and power to your pen! I hope his zines found happy homes.

On the whole, everything was fan-damn-tastic. However, I wasn't expecting that staffing a table at LitLink would be so much work--or so stressful! It may just be a quirk of my calamitous nature that I found circumstances somewhat trying, but I felt I had to be "on" for everyone who stopped by. I greeted each person and tried to ascertain if they wanted to gab or just browse. I found myself strangely unprepared to give a 25-word-or-less description of "a gleeful press!" or imps in the inkwell when asked. I felt an unprecedented shyness when discussing my role as independent publisher, poet, zinester, and small press prez! Who'da thunk old aunt calamity would turn BASHFUL in front of all those people? I was also under-prepared for the few nutcases who dropped by. Every community has them (poetry and zining communities may even have a greater share!). They're harmless, by and large, and I don't even mind talking to them for short periods of time, but often they (passively) demand in-depth, lengthy interaction. I think I managed to deal with 'em in an appropriately courteous fashion, but it required more energy than I anticipated. (After one such incident, Mr. Calamity looked sideways at me, paused in his typing and growled, "Don't leave me here alone.")

I was working my corner. In fact, about three hours into the festival, "a gleeful press!" was about to turn into the "grumpy" press, because my face was starting to ache from all that good-natured smiling (Spontaneous idiot grins and smirks come more naturally to me than the constant princess smile). It was rough at times and I was dead-tired at the end. Guess I'm not a natural bawd: I'll have to work at my pimping skills.

Afterwards, Mr. Calamity and J.T. and I shared a split of champagne to toast my small press success. I was grateful for the support and encouragement of all my friends who dropped by, but I will confess that I was so plumb worn-out on the way home that I actually shed a few post-stress-fest tears! It was a mini after-event meltdown. I felt weirdly small and insignificant, and wondered what in the hell I felt I was doing, pretending like I was a "real" publisher! Mr. Calamity sighed and dug a dime out of the car's cupholder and flipped it to me: "Here," he said, "Go buy yerself a spine." He proceeded to point out that I had set out books, zines, and broadsides at the festival--all of which I had personally designed and created! I figgered Mr. Calamity was right and I began to feel better.

Now, looking back at this year's LitLink, I think it was fabulous and I'm definitely going to consider doing it again next April. I'll bone up on my snake-oil skills and prepare to wank my wares with less reserve. It's only words, after all! And I sincerely hope that the numbers of zinesters and D.I.Y. publishers there will increase exponentially. I'd love to see more zine makers (& distros!) of every stripe and slash filling the courtyard of Calhoun Square trading, selling, and hawking their goods. You don't even need to get a table--just stuff a backpack with zines and head on over. Next year, babies, let's party like it's 1999!

iMPS iN THe iNKWeLL * P.O. Box 6724 * Minneapolis MN 55406 * $2.00/trade

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