I woke this morning to the news that Kinko’s has been
put to
rest.
Yes Kinko’s, that store with which I hold the most drastic
love-hate relationship.
You are the one that takes 15 minutes just to place a color
copy order, that keeps your self-service area in shambles, that goofed my
grandfather’s memorial program while our family suffered from grief, that took 20
minutes to download my four days of email. Yes, you, Kinko’s, make me curse
your name, Stinko’s, as I leave your establishment.
But I also remember my first days in San Francisco, where
you offered me a $6 an hour job and a family of friends: the Buddy-Holly-look-a-like-turned-SF-hipster;
the Filipina “cousins” that shared a bed; the punk who invited bands to play shows
during the graveyard shift; and my best show buddy and zine partner.
You introduced me to Jon Moritsugu, my fave filmmaker at the
time; his wild and crazy wife, illustrator Amy Davis; Judd from the Real World;
and Keith Knight. You helped filmmaker Celine Salazar Parrenas fax in her
application to grad school. You showed your support at the cash register for
community projects like Mikal’s Kittum’s zine, Subterranean Records, and Tim’s
friend who had AIDS.
Most importantly, you introduced me to technology. You
taught me Pagemaker and Photoshop and the basics of graphic design and computer
maintenance. You opened doors to the d.i.y. community after I made my zine,
Static, introducing this shy girl as a punk rock do-er.
Oh Kinko’s, for that brief moment while my ideas were still
being shaped, you were my everything. I loathe the
corporatized/monetized/uniformed/canned music being you’ve become. Good bye
Kinko’s. FedEx Office is merely a store, while you were a cultural center.
