About Bizoo

3 years in the making.  40,034 beers consumed.  160,864 man hours.  20 kgs of body hair lost.  6 families eaten.  3 virgins cast into a volcano.  23 necks punched.  18 favours pulled (3 we really regret).  145 varieties of drugs taken.  2,304,506 lines written, edited and read.  5 conspiracies crafted.  7 dreams crushed into powder and snorted.  2 covers.  And 1 final issue of Bizoo.

That’s what it comes down to folks.  The end.  Bizoo was one of those strange creatures I didn’t hear about until it was too late.  There is often a time that I wish I joined earlier that was the strange and terrible ride that was this piece of you could say street zine that came from my hometown.

This has been a looong time in the making.  And its been a series of little droplets merging together over the years, slowly become that giant black wave, the kind changes the shape of coastlines.  Maybe I am hyping this up, I don’t know.  Even today, when I pick any of the street mags, I am reminded of Bizoo.  It’s shape, it’s mixture of harsh reality and pure fantasy. It’s weird and acidic smell.

During my bit, I helped edit an issue and wrote in a review.  By the time the next issue rolled around (or was it the one after?), the zine had folded.  I personally see the main reason was a music festival that no one came to.  Or at least remained only half-full at best throughout the day.  I sometimes reflect on that day and wonder where it all went wrong.  Was it the music? Was it the promotion?  I was never sure.  But the zine’s manager, Dr Jerm, was devastated and gently explained to me that the publication was no more.  Then he said something about his lawn and threatened me with a shotgun full of rocksalt.

But that has always been the case with Dr Jerm.  You didn’t know what he was going to do next.  There always seemed to be something around the corner with that guy, something to fall into and carry on with.  And only now, with the right star coming into their correct alignment that this final issue can rise to the surface and call us back to it’s multiple-bosomed chest.

Think of it like the Antichrist’s personal assistant, Cthulhu’s slacker brother, Jesus’ middle man, Tiamat’s secretary or assistant manger of an IT call centre (you never hear from the actual the manager, weird).  But don’t fret the big final issue will hit your town soon enough.

Jack Crash

The Regional Arts Fund grant was kindly auspiced by: YWCA Queensland.