In this near-dystopian, once-great country—carefully curated, censored, and corrupted by Ryan Walters and his ilk—one of the truest forms of resistance to emerge is the revival of the zine. A rebellious, independent print medium, zines are the true freedom of the press, and they’ve made an undeniable comeback in recent months.
Back in the mid-90s, my own zine, Damaged, evolved from a rough cut-and-paste production into a low-budget, semi-professional endeavor—both versions now relics of a long-gone era. But as I stepped into the new Floating Bookshop at 3 NW 9th St., surrounded by stacks of fresh independent media, especially zines, I felt something stir.
I might do it too…
Although the Floating Bookshop had spent the past year or so as a roaming pop-up, I’d heard they’d secured a new lease—right between Katiebug’s and Nashbird. So, with the scent of fried chicken thick in the air, we went to check it out last week.
After conquering the daunting task of counting the steps to the door, I turned the handle, expecting the usual wave of middle-aged nostalgia. Instead, it was wiped away—replaced with the raw, teenage zine rebellion still simmering deep inside me.
Fuck you, Dad!
Through the door, I was immediately greeted by an immense rack of zines—and of course, I made a beeline straight for them. From DIY, lo-fi local projects to nationally distributed, slickly produced covers, from Xeroxed card-stock pamphlets to wildly painted works of art, from raw personal diary rants to sweeping takes on pop culture and beyond…
I hadn’t been so out of stapled breath since wandering into See Hear on St. Marks in New York City back in 2001.
But before diving into those radical reminders of alternative culture, I took a moment to browse the racks of some of the most informative, enthralling, and enlightening literature of the past few decades—right here in this little shop. Though the storefront is small, it’s refreshing to be in a neighborhood bookshop that actually prioritizes books instead of overpriced toys, DVDs, or $7 caffeinated concoctions.
As I flipped through a book about R.E.M.—the band, not the sleep cycle—my fiancée had already found a few gems for her three-year-old niece. Two educational tomes, both written and illustrated by Oklahomans: the beautifully crafted Powwow Day by Traci Sorell and the powerful Someday is Now: Clara Luper and the 1958 Oklahoma City Sit-Ins by Olugbemisola Rhuday-Perkovich.
Sadly, in Ryan Walters’ book-burning fervor, these would undoubtedly be on his hit list. But at least we try.
Leaving her to her own search, I returned to the teeming zine library.
Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted a fresh copy of ReSearch’s Zines! Vol. 1—a truly indispensable guide that, back in 1996, had introduced me to the then-below-the-mainstream world of independent media. Though I’d owned Vol. 2 for years, finally picking up the first volume after all this time felt like closing a long-overdue loop.
That being said, it was the Oklahoma zines that really filled me with an indirect sense of pride.
As I flipped through personal, political, and homegrown comix—yes, there is a difference—I found myself drawn to the film-focused zines. That’s when I discovered Tulsa writer Kris Rose and her zine duology: Mentally Unbalanced and Violent: The Hagsploitation Film ($10.99) and The Final Girl: How Horror Movies Made Me a Better Feminist ($5.99).
Fully satisfied with the shopping trip, I took my stash to the counter. As he rang me up, the guy at the register told me to take a few complimentary stickers that I was eyeing. One of them said to “live like you’re in a book that Walters guy would want to ban.”
It might not seem like it right now, but Oklahoma City’s counterculture is more than surviving. Whether it’s a blistering song, a feckless website, or a sixteen-page zine that only your friends will ever see, every piece of independent art is one more nail in Walters's (or Stitts, or even Trump's) coffin.
“Fuck yeah,” I said. “Can I have another one for a friend?”
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Follow Louis Fowler on Instagram at @louisfowler78.
