Webisodes: Short Story Part 4

Thomas Sandleby's life was in disarray. It was a "gradually and then suddenly" moment, to quote Mike Campbell's famous line in The Sun Also Rises (which Thomas quoted quite frequently), although recently he was beginning to wonder if maybe his life had been in disarray from start.

Growing up, Tom was basically a regular kid -- he played baseball, and video games, and listened to records with friends and by the time he hit high school he had figured out the minimal amount of work he needed to coast through with straight B's and did so effortlessly. He was a bit of a prankster but knew where to draw the line, and once even talked his friend out of lighting the chemistry teacher's hair on fire using the Bunsen burner and hydrochloric acid, although to this day, he regretted it slightly.

To his parents and guidance counselors he was the classic underachiever, but really, Tom was just a coaster. He coasted through high school, and coasted through college, and when Rachel Lubovitch, the pretty but high-strung girl who sat next to him in World Cultures asked him out for coffee, and then again a week later, he coasted right into a grueling three-year relationship without ever having to do so much as make a dinner reservation.

"To this day, he regretted it slightly."

Rachel was his first real girlfriend -- he had experienced his fair share of random hook-ups late in high school and early on in college -- but never felt the need to exert the effort necessary to ask a girl out on a date. The lack of romance in his life never bothered him -- Tom was a guy's guy through and through, and would much rather shoot the shit with his buddies and watch baseball than hear about shoe-shopping or how some chick's rude roommate left hairballs in the shower drain.

If it weren't for Rachel, Tom might have remained a bachelor still -- a fact she used to her advantage to mold and shape him. First it was his fashion -- black socks with navy Converse was never acceptable -- and then the telephone -- always call back within 30 minutes, or at least send a text message. He resented the instruction, but found it considerably less effort to just give in.

The truth was Tom never really liked Rachel that much in the first place, and hated forgoing time with his friends to join her at costume parties. (What was it with chicks and their damn costume parties?) But Rachel was pretty, and the sex was good, and so he continued seeing her anyway and one year later when Rachel broke down in tears because "I'm so in love with you and you never tell me you love me!" he was perplexed and amazed, and told her he loved her too, even though the complex reality of it all was just starting to dawn on him.

The Real World: Roommate drama x 9898098098

A year later, they both graduated college, and Rachel found a place for the two of them - a cozy apartment in Buffalo, NY -- and they moved in that September. Tom was without a job and didn't feel like looking and happily accepted the arrangement along with Rachel's $60,000 salary (she worked in real estate) and delicious home-cooked dinners.

It was at that point that Tom really DID fall in love with Rachel; she was his stability, his fortress - not to mention his breadwinner - and he enjoyed being coddled by her. He spent his days going for long walks in the city, and reading at coffee shops, and smoking pot in front of the television ("a nasty habit!" Rachel always chided), then listening to the latest indie rock album while waiting for Rachel to return home so he could hear about her day and tell her interesting things he read in the Times that afternoon.

He fell out of touch with his friends during this time - who needs friends when you have hours upon hours of Degrassi to catch up on? - and became somewhat of a homebody. Rachel's company would frequently throw large fancy galas and events over the course of the year, which she would expect him to attend, and he would throw such a fit about having to leave the house and hobnob with the "hoighty-toighty" and would refuse to change out of his jeans and hoodie.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?" Rachel would scream. "You're such a deadbeat!" and "When are you ever going to get a job?"

But Tom would just slough it off, mumbling something about Craig's List and everything being a goddamn scam, and would continue to do nothing. And after about 8 months of this, Rachel became fed up, and one day he returned home from his walk to find all of his belongings packed up in boxes and sitting on front stoop.

"It's over," said Rachel. "Now get out."

And he did.

Kicked to the curb: all his belongings on the front stoop

Looking back, it was probably the kick-in-the-pants he needed, but at the time, Tom took it horribly. He moved back in with parents (in upstate New York) and took a part time job at Home Depot, where he instructed old ladies about potting soil and trowels. He spent most of his money on drugs, and was constantly high, until his parents kicked him out as well and he found a small apartment a few blocks away and got a new job at a newspaper that required him to work 60 hour weeks.

For a while, he called Rachel every single day, and for a month or so she indulged him before she stopped answering his calls altogether. He dated some, but nothing ever worked out, and was feeling more directionless than ever. So when a coworker at the paper, who was laidback in general and seriously into indie rock, decided to move to Brooklyn to be closer to the action, he moved too, changing his name to Thom (to be more like Thom Yorke) and declaring a fresh start.

Five years later, Thom was mildly successful, with a popular bar to his name, and a cute younger girlfriend who didn't control his life too much. Sometimes Thom got the feeling that Bree was just with him for the cred, but he tried to ignore it and continued to coast by, enjoying life as he always had.

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Neighborhood Watch Part 2: Le Phils

I'm not really a sports fan. That's not to say I don't watch or won't watch sports - I will and I do - occasionally - but I'm not really ever going to go out of my way to watch sports, or engage in conversations about sports with my friends, or purchase or own apparel with any sort of sports logo on it (unless of course, it's used ironically.)

Urban Outfitters: for all your ironic tee-shirt needs

It doesn't bother me particularly if other people want to engage in these behaviors - other people can do whatever they want (provided they're not taking away my freedoms, or voting Republican) and in fact, I think some good old-fashioned sports' fandom can be quite charming. It shows loyalty, and pride in one's city, and a firm commitment to furthering the dreams of millions of elementary school boys who stay off the crack pipe because they one day hope to become the next Derek Jeter (or whoever is good these days, I don't know.)

D Jetes - with the ladies!

Philadelphia -- the city in which I reside -- is a special case. It's been 98 seasons - or about 25 years, if my math is correct - since a Philadelphia sports team has won a championship. That's a long time for a city that really cares about its sports teams (except for the '76ers, who I didn't know existed until about a month ago) and is frequently chastised for its unfashionable adoption of Eagles jerseys as everything-wear.

The Birds: never a good look

BECAUSE it's been a whopping 25 years, there are many sports fans - those that have lived in Philly since '83 at least -who are very, very excited about Philly's own Phillies (it's a stupid name - I blame Ben Franklin) being in the World Series. I understand. I imagine, for me, it'd be the rough equivalent of the Beatles coming back for one final show, in their 1968 splendor. It is a big deal to these people.

However.

Can we talk fashion for a second?

Phillies jersey and blue jeans - fine. It's very wholesome, patriotic, Americana. Yeah, 'Merica! Phillies jersey and a denim skirt - very cutesy cowgirl. Americana. Good job looking wholesome, sorority girls. I have no problem with these looks. They are not for me, but neither are the Saw movies, which seem to be doing quite well.

Phils jersey, denim skirt

However, some of the shit I have seen:

"Professional" employees, at a place of employment that will remain unnamed (to protect the fashion victims) wearing giant, oversized Phillies tee shirts '80s style over jeans. I'm sorry, this is not aerobics class, nor a trip to the beach, and the giant shoulders on that shirt make you look like a sack of potatoes. This is not business casual.

A GROUP of 20-something "chicks" (best term available) wearing tank tops with unbuttoned Phillies jerseys overtop, fitted black pants and high heels, running through the subway. One word for you all: sneakers.

GROWN MEN walking down 15th street in shorts and face paint on a 50 degree weekday, hollering and acting like idiots. I'm sorry, is the circus in town? Because you look like an ass-clown.

Umm, no.

I'd also like to point out: when an especially awesome band is in town, my friends and I get really excited. We talk about it for weeks, and wait with anticipation. However, come show night, we don't suddenly don unitards and neon and pretend to dress as Karen O. Why? Because it's never appropriate to go out in public like that. Sports fans should follow the same set of rules.

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If you could save yourself, you could save us all...

Growing up at the start of the conspicuous emo movement, my friends and I, circa 2002, were pretty much convinced that Orange Rhyming Dictionary (which you can stream for free online!) was the greatest album ever made. In retrospect, it's easy to see why:

1. This album rocks; and
2. Blake Schwarzenbach has one of those voices in rock -- simultaneously soothing and brooding, gravelly and smooth.

B. Schwarzenbach - photo by Chrissy Piper

My favorite song was always "Sweet Avenue" - my high school boyfriend put this on a mixtape for me (along with Piebald, the Get-Up Kids, Hey Mercedes and more) and for years I was convinced that nobody described love better. (And maybe they don't - it's hard to say definitely either way.)

Years later, I finally got my hands on Dear You, the final Jawbreaker album before the band broke up and Schwarzenbach went on to form JTB. I'm kind of obsessed. 24 Hour Revenge Therapy of course, is the band's m.o., but I like the softness of this album, and the wistfulness. Check out the opening track (apparently also covered by Fall Out Boy...eeek!), and wish that it was 1995 again.

Webisodes: Short Story Part 3

Bree Dawson and Marilyn Morrissey met Jack Lemon in early 2005 while shopping for shoes at Manolo Blahnik. That is to say: Jack Lemon was shopping for shoes at Manolo Blahnik –ostensibly for then girlfriend Kitten Current -- when Bree Dawson and Marilyn Morrissey wandered in, on their way down from an exhilarating mushroom trip, and were in the midst of composing the lyrics to what would later become Menstrual Mustache’s breakout single, “Don’t fear the Queer,” when Lemon noticed them.

Standing out in New York City is never easy, especially in Manhattan, and especially especially in front of Jack Lemon, Gawker OOA and infamous coke addict/man-about-town.

Jack noticed Bree first, because he thought she was pretty, and was intrigued by her giant, sparkly, tortoise shell frames. But there were lots of pretty girls in the Big Apple, and he probably wouldn’t have looked twice if it weren’t for the strange, strange words coming out of her mouth:

"My dear, the queer, no no pap smear
Just like King Lear, the steer
Don’t steer, drink beer, and leer, and cheer
It’s harmless fun, don’t fear the queer”

H. Duff and friend, in MBs (Barbara Davidson / Los Angeles Times)

“Let me guess: DeLillo,” said Lemon sardonically, holding a baby blue and lime stiletto in his hand.

“Actually, Manolo Blahnik,” replied Bree breezily, gesturing towards the shoe; and then “No, actually, it's Menstrual Mustache, the greatest riot girl act since Your Mom. Not that you’d have heard of them.” She smirked.

Of course Bree knew full well who she was talking to and wanted to give Jack Lemon a run for his money. Plus the mushrooms were still fucking with her head a little, and she felt compelled to act out of line.

Marilyn Morrissey extended her hand toward Lemon. “Manolo Blahnik?” she said giggling. “Funny, you look just like Jack Lemon. Jack Lemonade!” She giggled again.

It was a silly thing to say, and Marilyn later wished she didn’t. But it was perhaps her zaniness – and giant, glazed pupils – that made Lemon respond the way he did.

“Are you girls on drugs?” he said. And then without even waiting for an answer: “you wanna do some more?”

PD and KM: Out and about OD.

Being photographed out and about with Jack Lemon was probably the best thing Bree Dawson and Marilyn Morrissey could have done to get Menstrual Mustache off the ground. As soon as the photos were posted online, readers began identifying the duo – “those crazy chicks from that period band!” – and they became a short-lived cultural phenom. And actually, Bree took the whole set-up one step further, by sleeping with Lemon at the first available opportunity.

She was 22 years old at the time – barely old enough to drink – and a whopping 11 years Lemon’s junior. When the story broke, Kitten Current was furious, and the press had a field day, composing witty headlines like “Kitten claws Menstrual Sister” and “PMS runs rampant in East Village."

Bree told the paps their affair had been “a crime of passion” and that herself and Lemon were not a serious couple. Actually however, she had fallen for him hardcore, and didn’t want to admit the whole anonymous sex thing was not her usual bag.

Anon. sex: one artist's interpretation

Falling in love with a celebrity is always hard, because for the rest of your life, you get to hear about their various romantic endeavors, and look at pictures of them cavorting with their new loves. Had Jack Lemon slept with Marilyn, it probably would have torn her apart, but Bree refused to let it get the best of her.

For months afterwards, Bree and Marilyn received invites to Lemon’s stylish soirees, and Menstrual Mustache even played Jack’s 34th birthday bash. By that time of course, he was long since broken up with Kitten Current, and dating a new, faceless, hipster chick whose vacant personality only served to make himself look interesting in comparison.

Now, a year later, Bree barely thought about Jack Lemon, and had since moved on to other fashionable alternatives. In 2006, she was dating Thom Sandleby, a 29-year-old record fanatic and owner and manager of popular Williamsburg bar, the Sandlot.

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The difference between boys and girls, Part I

I am a girl. I've been a girl my entire life. What's more, I've always felt like a girl - even when I thought I hated all other girls, and claimed to wish I was a boy. Part of this of course is that I like things like party dresses and shoes and Belle & Sebastian - but part of it is that I think like a girl.

Belle & Sebastian

What does it mean to think like a girl? I'm not sure. My guy friends always tell me that girls are crazy - that we're obsessive and manipulative and overly-emotional and have high expectations. I think mostly they're right. But I think guys can be like this too - but that somehow it's less socially acceptable.

But then again, maybe I'm wrong. As a child, I remember always having very active mental dialogues with myself about everything - I'd constantly tell myself "No, Katie, don't pick your nose," or "you know the answer. Pretend you're still figuring it out!" or "You slob, you're disgusting." (Somehow, all through my youth I was convinced that I was horribly atrocious to look at, probably because my mother dressed me in OshKosh B'gosh all the time, which I abhorred, and which definitely made me the most unfashionable kid in the second grade.)

The Dreaded OshKosh

As I grew older, my dialogues evolved, and I'd plan out entire conversations in my head - usually much wittier and snappier than any conversations in real life ever were. I'd drop my pencil, and my fourth grade crush would pick it up, and say "I like your pencil." I'd say "I like you", and he'd ask me out, and we'd hold hands on the playground. Forget about the fact that all he wanted to do was play Kill the Carrier and not get whistled at. My pencil scheme would have him head over heels.

By the time I approached middle school, my dialogues were full blown plots, usually concocted with my best friend, also named Katie, through a series of grueling Saturday afternoon gossip sessions. We'd go through the yearbook, making lists of all the cute boys in our class, and would rate them on looks, popularity, and how smart or dumb they were. (You didn't want someone too smart - this degraded their popularity - but you didn't want kids in remedial English either.)

I actually have no idea who this is - just a random kid I downloaded on the Internet. But I'd guess he'd be about a 7.

School dances required elaborate planning, and usually included making someone jealous by flirting with someone else, and then having a friend tell a friend that you liked their friend, and standing awkwardly around waiting for miracles to happen rather than simply asking your goddamn crush to dance.

This was all well and good, and we obsessed over it at the time, although usually it turned out that the guys would just be putzing around, wearing whatever they wore to school that day (we spent hours planning our outfits), and talking about the Simpsons while we flurried about. And then they'd just stand there and let us do all the work, and whatever happened to chivalry in 6th grade anyway?

Lies, lies!

Somewhere around age 13, I became very sick of girls, and decided they were evil, and manipulative, and jealous, and back-stabbing, and that I only wanted to hang out with guys. I think all girls go through this phase at some point. Why is that? Ask any girl in this phase at the time and she will tell you: guys are chiller. But what does that even mean?

I'm not sure, but I think it has something to do with doing rather than talking. You know how guys supposedly hate the phone? (Although many of my guy friends are actually quite obsessed with the sound of their own voices, and thus enjoy the phone quite a bit.) Guys don't want to talk. They want to do things - whether they be watch South Park or play videogames, or go mountain biking, or drink beer, or download porn.

The Male Mind: A diagram

This is absolutely mind-boggling to me. I never want to do any of these things - except for on rare occasions, usually when I am hanging out with guys who want to do them. My boyfriend Matt is quite into South Park, and I pretty much only watch it with him. That's not to say I don't enjoy South Park -- I do. South Park is fucking hilarious. But I'm more inclined to fill my time doing social things like dinners or happy hours - things that require talking.

Now like I said, many guys enjoying talking too, and many of my guy friends in particular like lecturing on and on about politics, or philosophy, or this great indie band from D.C. in the '90s - but never about what Janice said to Becky about Anthony, or whether Julie was offended when Jen didn't say hi to her in the elevator.

Office gossip

I spend a good portion of my work day talking about things like this, and I think it's because I work with women. Women focus on the little things, and talk about them, and revel in their confusion; men don't pay any attention. And a result, the relationship, most times, between men and women is that women have tons of preconceived notions and theories and men are completely oblivious and think women are crazy. And maybe we are. But what the fuck are men doing the entire time women are thinking?

I think this has something to do with the difference between men and women.

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Calexico: Carried to Dust

Calexico is a desert-rock-influenced alt-country band from Tucson, Arizona. They've been been making music for over 10 years now (remember 1998's The Black Light? that's ok, I don't either), and have collab-ed with the likes of Iron & Wine, Pieta Brown, Tortoise's Douglas McCombs and more. Through the years, they've slowly built a following, through old-fashioned touring and superior musicianship. (Ah, life before the internet!)

Also: their new album ROCKS! It's catchy and interesting, and full of beautiful melodies, and mellow, string-driven ballads. This is perfect music for waking up in the morning, and winding down after a long day of work. I've been listening non-stop for 2 or 3 days now, and it only gets better each time.

Here's the video for the first single, "Two Single Trees":

Gorgeous!

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Webisodes: Short Story Part 2

Bree Dawson was Marilyn Morrissey’s best friend, co-editor of the Brooklyn Meatball and lead singer in Menstrual Mustache. Unlike Marilyn, she was NOT related to Morrissey, and she secretly resented her friend for not working her connection more and trying to get the ‘Stache discovered.

Bree came from money – Daddy was a power broker – and lived in the Village, where she regularly extolled Malcolm Gladwell as the century’s new philosopher, believed fashion was art was culture was cool, and obsessively wore giant, sparkly, tortoise shell glasses that she claimed made her a formidable “icon of kitsch.” She did most of her blogging from various coffee shops and parks, chatting with strangers, and waiting in vain for the tabloid paps to confuse her with Lindsay Lohan, or some other ridiculous modern starlet, and photograph the shit out of her.

Her pen name and her stage name were one and the same: Eclat, a French word that could translate to both “splinter” and “brilliance.” Bree found this particularly appropriate, being that she was just one small person, endowed with a healthy share of artistic genius.

Actress Sienna Miller gets nabbed by the paps

She first met Marilyn back in 2004, at a winter rave under the Brooklyn bridge. Bree herself had no interest in raves, tending more towards electroclash and whatever was new and obscure but had been covering the show for the Meatball when rumors arose that fledgling DJ/producer Dan Deacon might be in town.

Actually, Deacon was in town that night, but Bree never met him, because she was cornered first by South African hipster hunk Jesse Milkovich, who offered her Quaaludes (“America hasn’t seen this shit since the ‘70s!” he bragged) and she ended up spending the night half naked, stockings in shreds, engaging in very public sex acts with Milkovich on the dance floor.

It was somewhere in between sessions that she noticed Marilyn, or rather, took note of Marilyn, who was piss-drunk, and kept yelling “My cousin Morrissey is a fag!” to a group of ravers who couldn’t have been older than 15. Bree’s ears perked up immediately, and she sauntered over, only to walk right into Marilyn’s defiantly clenched fist.

Dan Deacon, 2007. Photo by Jenna Wolf

Marilyn Morrisey of course had no intention of punching Bree Dawson – she was simply pumping the air in accordance with the music, and when Bree crumpled like a flower at her feet, she probably would have left well enough alone, had not Milkovich charged towards her angrily and demanded an explanation.

The charging and explanation-demanding made Marilyn uncomfortable, and she reacted as any peace-seeking raver would, exclaiming timidly, “I’m sorry!” and frantically rushing off into the crowd and popping a benzo (only for special occasions back then) to deal with the anxiety.

Later, Bree would write up this encounter on the Meatball, and Marilyn would read it, and write such a humorous and apologetic e-mail in response that Bree would hire her right on the spot, and the two would soon become fast friends.

The infamous fist pump (from hensleygroupinc.com)

Bree was always the rebel-rouser of the pair; Marilyn was the snark and sarcasm. Bree was all about being seen, and Marilyn liked to make fun of people, and so they spent endless hours trolling the parks in Lower Manhattan and Brooklyn, making eyes at executives in Missoni suits and occasionally setting up shop in art galleries or coffee shops and offering passersbys some Menstrual Mustache: Unplugged. Luckily for both of them, Mustache's songs were not really adaptable to acoustic, and so they tended to limit these appearances to only a couple of times a year, usually when Bree bought a new dress she wanted to try out on a test audience of NYU freshmen.

In the end, Bree Dawson was right about one thing: hang around the same places long enough acting ridiculous, and sooner or later, you're bound to get noticed. Thus, how Menstrual Mustache got noticed -- and the Brooklyn Meatball became the next big thing.

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The rich old ladies of West Chester

My boyfriend Matt lives on a farm out in the suburbs, and so sometimes I'll go visit him for the weekend, and we will go out to brunch in the morning, where we'll see the rich old ladies of West Chester.

The rich old ladies of West Chester are like no old people I've ever seen before, primarily because 1.) They are crazy libertarians, and 2.) they think they're the hottest shit since sliced bread -- possibly even before.

sliced bread: since 1928

Imagine the scene. Matt and I, bespectacled, sloppy, hunched over coffee at local diner/restaurant Mr. Mike's, enjoying our Messy Mikes and omelets. In walk a group of three rich old West Chester women, probably mid-60s, clad in the most ridiculous attire imaginable and seriously pissed off about having to wait.

Woman 1 has shoulder length gray hair, giant designer sunglasses that she keeps on for the duration of the meal, large pearl earrings, a crisp white button down shirt (how does she manage not to spill anything on it?) and (I'm not even making this up) a pink and white polka-dotted sweater draped around her shoulders. Black pants and shiny silver flats complete the look.

silver flats: not just for hipsters anymore (stylebubbledailywear.blogspot.com)

Woman 2 clearly opts for mystery - black shirt, black skirt, black stockings, black shoes. Her blond hair (yeah, right) is pulled back in a ponytail.

Woman 3 is the most interesting of the group. Her head is perfectly shaved - presumably because of some sort of cancer - and she is totally reveling in it, as if losing your hair somehow gives you wisdom and experience that others can't possibly understand. (I'm pretty sure I see her car in the parking lot on the way out, and it definitely has a Save the Ta-Tas bumper sticker on it.)

She wears bright red lipstick, a red top, a Crayola blue blazer, white pants AND Crayola blue slippers with little white stars on them. My brother Tim was born on the Fourth of July and I distinctly remember my own grandmother (certainly not a rich lady of West Chester) wearing a similar outfit at many of his birthday celebrations. On a random day in October however, Woman 3 looks a bit unnecessarily patriotic.

The 3 women: an artist's rendition

The woman finally are seated next to us, and after significant grumbling (as far as I am concerned, they have the best view in the whole damn place) their talk turns to politics.

Ah, politics. Woman 3 yaps on and on about Barack Obama's energy plan, and some "very insightful" article in the New York Times. And then about another article in the New York Times. And then, guess what she read in the Times last week?

Woman 1 continually nods and pushes her hair behind her shoulder. Woman 2 looks bored to tears, and probably just wants her damn mushroom omelet.

All 3 women like Barack Obama (thank you liberal guilt) but are critical of his energy plan. Woman 1 dislikes Sarah Palin for carting that damn baby around everywhere. That poor baby is going to have issues growing up! Women 3 would never treat a child like that.

said "poor baby"

It's great to see people keeping informed, even if they are little New-York-Times-ettes, and I have no real beef against the rich old ladies of West Chester, other than they get to sit around and read the New York Times all day, and I have to work, and can not afford designer sunglasses (not that I would buy them anyway, since I would probably just sit on them) or pearl earrings (again, would not buy) and will probably be a poor, impoverished old lady living in a one-bedroom apartment somewhere in South Philly. But actually, something about their conversation strikes me as a little sad.

I know a fair number of people who experience life vicariously through celebrity culture, or reality TV, and I always feel sort of bad for them for not getting to experience life for themselves. But then again, many of these people are ugly, or socially awkward, or just kinda dull and are perfectly content to experience life from a distance.

But these ladies - these rich old ladies of West Chester - seem teeming with life, and just too old or too out-of-it to indulge. They're clearly educated, and even interesting, and I feel bad that they have to spend their days critiquing the parenting methods of Sarah Palin rather than having their own delicious stories to regale.

coral reefs: teeming with life, despite old age

Listening to their conversation (I swear, this was not all I was doing during breakfast), all 3 seemed like they had something to prove to each other - that they truly were smart, and educated, and in-tune. By the time I reach my mid-60s, I hope I can stop proving, and just being. On that note, maybe my own one-bedroom in South Philly is not a bad goal.

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Don't Take Me Home Until I'm Drunk...

Yes, the Wedding Present is back, and has been for a while. Sooo excited to see these guys tonight.

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Webisodes: Short Story Part I

Marilyn Morrissey was the second cousin, twice removed, of legendary British singer Steven Patrick Morrissey, generally known simply as Morrissey, and former lead singer of alt-rock band the Smiths. It was an impressive claim, and Marilyn clung to it dearly, despite the fact that she was really a New Order girl, and found her cousin wan, boring and self-obsessed, and generally tried to avoid him at weddings and other family events.

Like Morrissey, Marilyn was born in England, and moved to the United States at age 8. Growing up, she was pale and bad at sports, and the other children made fun of her for her funny accent and for saying “loo” instead of toilet.

Nowadays, it didn’t matter as much. At 24, Marilyn’s fading British accent was a prized piece of cultural cred, and calling her cousin a sell-out did wonders to endear her to the NY scenester crowd she rolled with.

Brooklyn Scenesters

She spent her days in a tiny Bushwick apartment, freelancing for the leftist blog “Brooklyn Meatball”, a biting satire of Brooklyn Vegan which criticized hipsters who joined the Vegan movement just to be cool. In reality, the Meatball was just as ridiculous and obsessed with its own scenester stats, although Marilyn liked to look at herself as the great purveyor of truth in a shallow, internet-obsessed world.

She didn’t date much – relationships were overrated—and had a crippling benzos habit that she kept under wraps from her family. Without benzos, she felt empty and depressed; on them, she felt relaxed, and incisive. Her dealer was her landlord, Patrick McKee, and she payed a supplemental fee on top of her rent each month for an unlimited supply of as many pills as she could get down. (No selling to others allowed.)

On the weeknights, and weekends whenever possible, she sang backup and played bass in an all-female riot girl act known as Menstrual Mustache. It was here, on stage, that Marilyn truly came alive, and after shows, she would stumble home drunk at 3 a.m. and compose angst-y lyrics and melodies while flying high on benzos.

Riot Grrl Extreme: Le Tigre

In front of her mirror, and for her houseplants and dishes, she was a rock star; on stage, she preferred to stay in the background, hair covering her face, lest someone should notice her and compare her to Morrissey.

Her one true love had been a Morrissey fan, and she still blamed her cousin for the disintegration of their relationship. Todd was convinced “There is a light that never goes out” was the greatest song ever written, which angered Marilyn, because she was pretty sure it just rehashed the plot of Rebel without a Cause.

“Well, let’s see you do better,” Todd had told her, but Marilyn refused to share her compositions, fearing inadequacy, and Todd eventually left her, citing a lack of emotional connection. He was more connected to Morrissey than he was to her, he told her.

James Dean in Rebel Without a Cause

Sometimes at night, Marilyn would wake up suddenly in a cold sweat, the benzos having worn off, and would swear she heard “Heaven knows I’m miserable now” playing from her speakers. When she went to check however, they were always off, and she’d stumble back to bed, cursing her cousin silently.

It never occurred to her that perhaps she didn’t hate Morrissey as much as she thought – that perhaps they had more in common than she realized. Like her cousin, Marilyn was somewhat of a loner – although she always just assumed it was because everyone else sucked.

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Stop bitching, start a revolution

I have no idea what these people are doing in Philly, but I've seen them twice in the past month, on Walnut Street near Rittenhouse Square, and both times, their snarky bumper stickers have caused my walking companions (white, liberal, 20-something dudes) to stop, chat, and eventually fork over a few dollars for a sticker and a magazine...


They're extremely well-spoken and friendly, and obviously very good at picking targets. The fella we spoke to last Sunday claimed they were an arts-based mountaintop community; according to their website, they are from Marlinton, West Virginia, which Google tells us is Pocahontas County and "Nature's Mountain Playground." I suppose fundraising out there is tough, so they commute into the city, although Philly seems a bit excessively far...

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As far as I can tell, the name "Zendik" comes from American novelist Wulf Zendik, who founded an arts commune in California and wrote some book called "A Quest Among the Bewildered."

(click to enlarge)

It's the new hippie manifesto, I suppose, and these canvassers are Zendik's disciples. They seem strange, and I'm not sure how they're eschewing society if they're camping out in Rittenhouse. However, they're also nice, and less annoying than the Greenpeace/ Register to Vote /Rescue Animals crowds that hang in Old City, so I suppose I can't complain. Besides, last time I saw them, I got a sweet bumper sticker out of the deal.

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It's Cool 2 Know Nothing (Cut Copy remixes the Kaiser Chiefs)

So as far as I can tell, it was never really cool to be smart (except, you know, in that witty, Woody Allen kind of way), but I think this track (Kaiser Chiefs, by way of Cut Copy) really epitomizes the kind of vapid, dance-party-obsessed, uppers-embracing culture that the newest generation of flannel-and-sweatband-wearing hipsters represent.

Lilo: The poster child of flannel and sweatbands everywhere

Actually, that might be a stretch. Either way: Killer tune.