Webisodes: Short Story Part 12

Thomas Sandleby, meanwhile, was gloating. He was gloating because he was pretty sure Bree Dawson was into him, and because the Sandlot's opening night went well, and because as owner, he was pretty sure he would never have to pay for weed again. Ah, life was sweet. If only Rachel could see him now.

(Actually, it turned out, that un-beknownst to Thom, Rachel had moved to New York City herself almost 2 years before, after taking her LSATs on a fluke and getting accepted to NYU Law School. She was dating Ronald Harris, a young lawyer and TA for her tortes seminar, and was pretty sure she was going to marry him. She rarely thought of Thom and figured he was off being a deadbeat somewhere.)

Thom now realized, deep down, that Rachel had never been the right girl for him, and that she could never lead the spontaneous, take-it-as-it-comes lifestyle that came so naturally to him. Rachel was a girl who always had to have a plan, that didn't take time to smell the roses. Someone like Bree was more wild and free-spirited. Rachel would have said she was a hot mess, and Thom liked that about her.

Apparently, there is a club in Oregon called "Hot Mess." These are some of the people that attend.

Bree Dawson, meanwhile, was not thinking about Thom. She was thinking about the gentleman from the bar earlier that evening and trying to nurture the strange feeling that she had met him previously. It wasn't like Bree to forget a face -- she prided herself on this talent -- which meant she either must have been really fucked up when they met (a likely possibility) or that the gentleman had somehow altered his appearance.

She was also thinking about Marilyn, and her desperation, and racking her brain for a list of guys she could set her up with. She had a litany of male companions, but most were gay, or married, or didn't take showers, or had creepy obsessions with Spiderman figurines. Her datable friends she had already dated herself -- or wanted to keep around to possibly date in the future -- and couldn't bear the thought of setting them up with Marilyn.

Sometimes Bree felt like Marilyn was Daria, which would make her of course Quinn, and while she liked being the pretty one, she couldn't help but feel unsubstantial at times, while Daria got to be all cool and moody and have the show named after her. Bree also suspected that Marilyn might have a downers addiction, although she wanted to be positive before taking any action.

Ok, so this may be taking it a little too far, but I'm very amused...

Jesse Milkovich had slept with Bree many times, but he had always been somewhat intrigued by Marilyn. Who was this raven-haired Brit with her hair always in her face, delivering snarky commentary like some British Janeane Garofalo? He tended to think of Bree and Marilyn as Molly Ringwald and Ally Sheedy, and while Bree's wide eyes and carefree innocence (although she was far from innocent) made him want to devour her, he couldn't help but notice Marilyn too, and wonder why the pair were such good friends.

Truth be told, Jesse Milkovich was a little scared of Marilyn, who seemed too deep and too moody and probably a little too intense to be around. Jesse feared that should be become involved with Marilyn, she would fall passionately in love with him, and when he wanted to move on, he would have to deal with her whining and obsessing. Really, it was pretentious and self-obsessed of him to think about this at all -- Marilyn thought he was an egotistical drug addict.

Molly Ringwald in this movie make me want to punch her in the face.

When Josh Stadt walked Marilyn Morrissey home from the Sandlot that Tuesday evening, a funny thing happened. They stopped at the entrance to the apartment complex and paused, and Josh said, "Hey, I know where you live, I'll walk you to your door. I've heard horror stories about weirdos hanging around these Brooklyn apartments."

"You're the greatest," slurred Marilyn, and they trampled up the steps, Marilyn grabbing onto Josh's shoulder at several points.

When they finally arrived at her door, Josh went to give her a hug goodnight, and they stared at each other for a moment, and gently kissed. And then they pulled away and kissed again, more passionately, until it devolved into a full-blown make-out session in the hallway.

"Do you want to come in?" said Marilyn breathlessly, fumbling for her key and unlocking the door.

"I'd love to," said Josh, following after her and pushing the door shut behind them.

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Like this excerpt? Read the entire thing (so far) here.

If there's something strange in your neighborhood..Who ya gonna call?

For the second time in less than 2 years, I feel myself literally TERRIFIED of school children.

Whatever happened to the City of Brotherly Love?

In order to deal with the problem, today I purchased "OFF!: Deep Woods. Repels mosquitoes that may carry WEST NILE VIRUS." (just like that.) "If in eyes, flush with water 15-20 minutes and call poison control." (As far as I can tell, you can't buy pepper spray in Philly. But I ordered some on the internet, and it's being shipped hopefully right now.)

And to the schoolchildren I say: you little fuckers want to be ass-wipes, you're gonna get it. (As long as I don't fuck up and accidentally spray myself...30% chance)

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And that's what Christmas is really about

For the first time in my entire life, the Bracaglia family did not attend church on Christmas eve this year. This was fine with me, as I do not attend church regularly, nor do I believe in God (although I suppose Christmas technically celebrates the birth of Jesus, who I suppose probably was real, if not really the son of God) -- and to my surprise, it seemed to be fine with everyone else in my family as well.



Growing up, my family was fairly religious -- we attended church almost every Sunday (except in the summers, because who wants to go to church when you don't have school?) and my brother Dan and I even taught Sunday School in high school as community service. The town we grew up in was mostly Catholic, and events like First Communion and Confirmation were major, important events which required notifying distant relatives. Junior and senior year of high school, there was a big weekend-long church retreat at the local parish that everyone who was anybody attended, and afterwards, we'd all wear our wooden crosses around our necks at a school, as much of a fashion statement as a statement of religion.

50 Cent shows off his Jesus bling

However, despite our status as confirmed, cross-bearing Catholics, neither my brothers nor I nor anyone we knew actually liked going to church, or read the bible, or made any effort whatsoever to lead any sort of a good Christian lifestyle (except for this one fellow named, appropriately, Christian, who did all the readings at church and played flute in the church band and would probably never engage in sinful acts like underage drinking or premarital sex.) For the rest of us however, church was just something you did because everyone did it, and often my favorite part of services was nabbing an aisle seat and checking out everybody's shoes when they went up to make Communion.

For years, my brothers and I tried to determine the actual alcohol content of the "wine." To this day,we're not sure.

It may turn out, in the end, that both myself and my brothers and everyone I went to church with growing up are terrible, horrible people, and that our blatant disrespect of church and sacred cross necklaces only means we are going to Hell. In fact, I do not doubt it. Furthermore, I have several very good friends that attend church regularly, and I am sure that for some, it is a wonderful and inspirational thing.

When it comes to mass on Christmas eve however, I simply would rather not go. Church doesn't do anything for me, and I can look at shoes from the comfort of my own home on the internet.

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Webisodes: Short Story Part 11

Marilyn Morrissey and Bree Dawson ended up that evening at Pond, a new age lounge near Bree's apartment in the Village. Both were looking for a change of pace, and neither had set foot in the establishment previously, and so it seemed the perfect opportunity to let loose and try something different.

They both adopted aliases for the evening -- Bree was Penelope and Marilyn Murgatroid (the ugliest name she could think of) -- and promised each other that no matter what happened, they'd be sure to leave together.

Pond that evening was relatively empty, and for once in their lives, neither Marilyn nor Bree knew anyone present. Instead, they settled down, and were enjoying shots (Jim Beam doubles, in a scotch glass, please) when an older gentleman with a pocket tee and fedora made his way to the bar and sidled up beside Marilyn.

the pocket tee + fedora look: as popularized by SamRo (gf of LiLo)

"I couldn't help but notice you ladies knocking back shots," said the gentleman leaning in. "I'm always impressed by women who drink their whiskey straight up." He tipped his hat slightly towards the pair. Up close, Marilyn noticed he had a tiny hankerchief in his tee shirt pocket, which matched the color of his fedora. It was a nice touch, and she was impressed, even though by her calculations he must have been at least 40.

"What are your names?" asked the gentleman, and Marilyn giggled and Bree piped up, "I'm Penelope, and this here is my friend Murgatroid."

"Murgatroid, eh?" said the gentleman inquisitively. "Man, your parents must have really hated you."

"Actually," said Marilyn, turning up the British-ness of her accent, "Murgatroid was a very popular name in England, circa 1977." (She purposely aged herself a few years, less the older gentleman be disinterested with a 24-year-old.) "My best friend growing up was Murgatroid as well. But my parents called me Murgy for short."

It was complete bullshit, and the older gentleman could tell. He raised his eyebrows. "Well then Murgy," he said. "My name's Bartholomew. Can I buy you another shot?"

Bartholomew's Day Massacre: causing mass chaos (and mass slaughter) in France, 1572

Marilyn and Bree stayed drinking with the older gentleman for over an hour, knocking back shots of JB and weaving elaborate tales of their lives as Penelope and Murgatroid. Both worked for the circus, they said, Penelope as an acrobat and Murgatroid as an elephant trainer, and were in Manhattan for a week only while they performed at Madison Square Garden. The circus life was tough -- grueling hours, uncomfortable costumes, sexual harassment from their slave driver boss -- not to mention the injuries both sustained from falling off the trapeze and being trampled by baby elephants.

Bartholomew of course was thoroughly entertained, and when the conversation started winding down, he invited the girls back to his apartment for "more drinks" and "tunes." Marilyn was tempted -- she was drunk, and on the rebound, but Bree said absolutely not, and dragged her friend into the bathroom for a quick conference.

"That guy is creepy," said Bree, "and old. I don't feel comfortable letting you go home with him."

"Aww, he's not so bad," replied Marilyn. "And I like his pocket square."

"No no no, " said Bree. "He's gross. You're coming back with me, like you promised."

But Marilyn resisted, and in the end, Bree Dawson left on her own, and Marilyn stayed -- "for one more drink only" -- at Pond. But it turned out that Bartholomew was interested only in Bree, and when she returned to the bar and gathered her stuff to leave, Bartholomew waved her off, then turned to Marilyn and said "Ah well, next time you girls are both around, maybe" and turned and exited the joint himself.

Marilyn, err, Murgatroid: seasoned elephant pro

Marilyn Morrissey was slightly offended by the evening's proceedings, and more than a little tipsy, but alas, the night was still young, and rather than return home defeated, she boarded the subway and headed up to Brooklyn. By 11:30, she was back at the Sandlot, seated next to her favorite rock star, Josh Stadt.

"Cheerio, Ms. Morrissey!" said Stadt as she walked in, and "what's shaking?"

And Marilyn muttered something incoherently about Bree and pocket squares and Josh looked at her perturbed and shook his head.

"Damn girl, you are DRUNK," he said, and extended a hand. "Come with me. Let's go get you home."

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Like this excerpt? Read the entire thing (so far) here.

How to hang a Christmas tree from the ceiling rafters: a photo essay

First, tie a large piece of rope around a rafter twice, making a giant loop. Place the end of the tree through this loop.

Next, make a second loop, and slide the other end of the tree through this loop. Encourage your friend to make helpful gestures as you attempt this.

Third, decorate the tree with giant lights. Make sure they're evenly spread!

Decorate the base of the tree with shiny ornaments. Do this in the dark for added atmosphere!

Stand back in awe and admire your work. Beautifully done! How wonderful is the Christmas season.


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Creak Creak

Ahhh, Brooklyn. Love it (for its pretension), hate it (for its pretension, and dirty slums) you have to admit, the western part of Long Island/the land of hipster artists really knows how to get people talking. Consider, for example, indie-pop band Creaky Boards, who made the jump from total to relative obscurity last summer, when lead singer Andrew Hoepfner accused Brit-rockers/ego-trippers/the most famous band in the world, Coldplay, of plagiarizing one of their songs.

Brazen effrontery? Perhaps. Especially since it seems that Coldplay did not, in fact, plagiarize the song. (Because two artists can't come up with the same totally unique dance riff independently.) But let's assume that the band are expert marketeers (instead of self-obsessed jerks) and celebrate them --because their songs sound like summer, and the '60s, and rock'n roll and nostalgia, and "Brooklyn," off the recently released Brooklyn is Love, is no exception. (Marilyn Morrissey and Bree Dawson love this shit.)

Here's another video of the band jamming. Note the beer bottles in the foreground: these guys know how to have a good time!

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Webisodes: Short Story Part 10

Jesse Milkovich knew Josh Stadt of course from the Sandlot, but the pair were never really friends. Milkovich found Stadt a bit too gay, and Stadt found Milkovich a bit too haughty, but basically they got along, and just didn't go out of their way for each other.

Milkovich knew all about Josh's tumultuous history with drugs, and had he been a friend, he probably would have cautioned him against the speedball concoction circulating the back room at the Sandlot that night. Yet Jesse Milkovich felt no particular connection to Stadt, and on the contrary, was quite eager to see his reaction, and so gleefully he had passed the needle to Josh, flashing a smile and a quick "No AIDS dude" (a gay joke as much as anything) and had laughed when Josh puked all over the place.

Milkovich also, of course, appreciated a man who could take down a speedball fearlessly, especially given Stadt's erratic past behavior, and thus when it was all over had slapped on Josh the shoulder and offered a hearty "you'll be fine, Fraggle" before turning and walking away.

Nasty!
(Ed's Note: Do not ever Google Image "puking." The results will be disturbing, I promise.)

Marilyn Morrissey had debated giving Josh Stadt's number to Patrick McKee all afternoon after running into Stadt in the hallway. It was silly really - of course she should give McKee his number -- but for some reason, she couldn't bring herself to it. Perhaps it was because she was a huge fan of Stadt. She was a huge fan of Fraggle -- listened to them on repeat -- and had detailed Stadt's many mishaps religiously and relentlessly on the Meatball. Somewhere along the way however he won her over and now more than anything, she wanted to save him.

A trip to McKee could only mean one thing, and Marilyn didn't trust McKee, even though she bought from him herself. She was already fucked, and dealing with it, but Stadt -- well, she felt compelled to protect him. It wasn't just chance that made Stadt walk out of her building at the same exact moment she was walking in, it was...fate. It had to be.

Marilyn actually did not believe in fate, but she did believe in karma, and held onto Stadt's number for 2 days before copying it down herself, and slipping it under McKee's door. In the end she told herself it was important to keep her promises, but really, she liked the idea of Stadt being more like her, and hoped he'd stop by the apartment again.

Unrelated, maybe. Hilarious? yes.

When Josh Stadt came to Jesse Milkovich two nights later looking for an eightball, Milkovich was hesitant. For one, he didn't really trust Stadt (he didn't really trust anyone) and didn't want Stadt to get the wrong idea about him being a dealer. (He wasn't...really.)

His move the other night had been a big, flashy mistake, and Milkovich was embarrassed by his own behavior. Bringing coke into a bar that had just been closed down for coke dealing? While working on a photo essay on the Almighty King and Queen Nation? What was he thinking? It was amateur stuff, and Milkovich was usually better than that.

"Hey man, I'm sorry but really, I don't usually carry," Milkovich replied and Stadt looked disappointed, and a little skeptical, and a little angry, but Milkovich just shrugged and continued, "...but I'm sure there's somebody here that can hook you up."

LiLo: Busted for Obvious Sauce

"So on a scale of 1 to gay, how gay is Josh Stadt?" Marilyn asked Bree Dawson on Tuesday night after the Sandlot opening. She was still lamenting her awkward encounter with Todd and Bree was cheering her up and taking her out for drinks.

"Josh Stadt is very gay," Bree replied, putting on her lip gloss. "Let's go somewhere in Manhattan!"

"Manhattan? I don't know. I was kinda thinking we'd go to the Sandlot," said Marilyn.

"The Sandlot? Oh no!" laughed Bree. "I feel like: I'm sick of that place. Let's go meet some new people!"

"I guess you're right," replied Marilyn, "maybe we'll meet the next Jack Lemon!"

"Jack Lemon is old news these days," said Bree, "unlike Josh Stadt, who was definitely fucked up on Friday night."

"Do you think he'll be alright?" asked Marilyn, and Bree replied:

"He's Josh Stadt. He lives to be fucked up.

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Like this excerpt? Read the whole thing here.

Last Friday, I had my annual work "holiday party"

...which featured, among other things, a good amount of debauchery, a large cruise ship, a mediocre buffet, and a glorious, unfettered open bar (kind of like another office party I once witnessed...)

During the party, I developed an unusual talent, namely, the ability to turn my head around 180 degrees, a talent which days later, it seems, I can no longer access:

Note the horrified expression on my coworkers' faces

Much dancing was done by all, and while we're not all naturals on the floor, I am happy to report that nothing quite like this occurred:

...although a couple coworkers certainly came close. Next up: the annual production holiday white elephant. I am not even kidding.


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Recycling (or not.)

I'm a recycler. I always have been, to the point where my brain freaks out and I get jittery if I see someone toss a Dr. Pepper can in the trash. Twice a week, I carry a ream of used paper home from work (in my eco-friendly canvas tote bag) so that it can be recycled, as my office, which goes through approximately 87987 trees per week, chooses not to recycle paper. (Although my boss, very kindly, transports all of the Dr. Pepper cans to the recycling plant personally, probably because there are less than 87987 of them, and because aluminum is the most "worthwhile" recyclable.)


Now as somewhat of an obsessive type, and a pain-in-the-ass in general, I have complained about this paper wasting to my boss many a time, and even shared my arm-aching tote bag story. But my boss has replied that my efforts are futile, that all the paper we use is grown on paper farms which are constantly planting new trees, and that the only benefit of my paper-transporting habits is stronger biceps and possibly a better throw come softball season. And also, the city won't pay for businesses to recycle paper.

I hear him. And yet...I can not stop. I am ADDICTED to recycling. EVEN IF the recycling people and the trash people are really the same (as many of my friends suggest) and it's all this grand governmental illusion (never trust the government) and nothing gets recycled anyway. EVEN IF this is true, it is still good to get into the habit.


I'm not sure why I feel so strongly about recycling. Perhaps it's because it was beat into me as a child. But plenty of other messages were beat into me - don't drink! don't have sex! - which I have have since decided to completely disregard. Maybe I just like feeling like I'm contributing one modicum of cleanliness to Mother La Terre. Maybe it's some sort of weird, self-inflicted, lapsed Catholic guilt for breaking the 10 Commandments. (Although in all honesty, I really only break numbers 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 9 and 10.) It is inexplicable, and yet, I will probably never stop.

Said So What - French Kicks

Webisodes: Short Story Part 9

Jesse Milkovich was tired. It was a long week at Tie-Rack, Tortilla and Tuba (a clever take on Iraq, Korea and Cuba), the anarchist zine founded, managed and directed by Milkovich, and long weeks meant lots of drugs and little sleep. Right now it was pot in the mornings, to get him going, coffee at the office when doing lay-out and directing, LSD or mushrooms in the afternoon, to help the creative juices flow, and speed or blow as the hours rolled on and he became in engaged in painting or editing photos til the wee hours of the morning.

Tie-Rack's mission was to make you think and Milkovich and a few coworkers contributed almost all of the content. Most days they'd spend creating -- original works of arts, short articles, poetry -- and a couple of times a month they'd stand out on the Brooklyn street corners hawking their wares and asking for donations.

Milkovich had always been a natural charmer, and so he rather enjoyed the street corner bit. Tall, handsome, and fiendishly disarming, he was a master at catching a young girl's eye as she walked down the street, opening with a comment about free expression (something all Brooklyn chicks believed in) and then following it up with, "Hey, I work for this independent magazine promoting free expression and individual rights. You should check it out!"

Jesse Milkovich: More successful than this clown.

He had met Bree this way, almost 5 years ago now, when Tie-Rack was just getting off the ground. It was one of his first times out selling, and she was one of the first really pretty girls he got a hold of. He was nervous as hell, and she could tell, but didn't say anything and even bought a copy of Tie-Rack, for which he was eternally grateful. (Meanwhile, Bree just thought Milkovich was hot, and needed content for her flailing blog. This same, self-serving dynamic would later come to dominate all of their future interactions.)

Milkovich was of Dutch descent, and grew up in Johannesburg, South Africa to military parents. As a child, he moved frequently, and traveled all over the world, and now at 26, he still felt the need to remain in motion. His parents were long since separated -- Mom was in Boston, and Dad in SA, and Milkovich was a dual citizen and traveled between both whenever he felt like it, which wasn't too often anymore -- he didn't like pausing to explain things to his parents.

He lost his virginity at age 15 -- with his neighbor's sister, at least 30 at the time -- in the pool shed behind her home in Johannesburg. It was a traumatizing experience for Milkovich, who had always been the heartthrob in school but had barely been past second base when it occurred, although afterwards he decided it made him a sex god, and that he could now get any woman he wanted.

South Africa: Land of Dutch immigrants, AIDs babies, apartheid, and beautiful pools

In a certain sense, this was true, although the problem with the women Milkovich met was that none of them were quite right for him. Friends would always tease him for raving excessively about a new chick -- an artist from Queens; an actress from the Lower East Side -- only to become bored and disinterested a week or so later. And then it was always back to Bree, who never expected anything in return and was content to hook up, hang out, drift apart and let things happen as they may.

Nowadays however, Bree was dating Thomas Sandleby, which meant Milkovich was on his own. That was fine with him -- business at Tie-Rack was thriving, and his hectic work schedule left little time for romance. His current project was a photo essay on the Almighty King and Queen nation, a Latino gang that sometimes ran rampant in Brooklyn and was known for being violent and unforgiving.

The Kings and Queens did not take kindly to being photographed by strangers, particularly skinny white boys like Milkovich. But Jesse had an in with Juan Valdez, a King and Queen initiate who went only by his alias and supported Milkovich's anarchist mission and occasionally sold him coke.

ALKQN: Do not mess.

Milkovich and Valdez met a few years back, at an airport in Rio De Janeiro. Both were waiting near the security area -- Valdez looking nervous -- and a drug-addled Milkovich had approached and said "Hey dude, something biting your balls?" and Valdez had paused, and stuttered, and said "Hey man, I got some contraband liquor in my suitcase here...I just know they're gonna find it. I'll give you 100 bucks if you carry it through security for me. They never check white guys."

And Jesse Milkovich had considered the situation -- what if he had a gun? or 10,000 pounds of cocaine? -- and thought, what the hell, the truth will come out in one of those lie-detector tests anyway, and said "Sure thing man" and walked through security unscathed with Juan Valdez's suitcase, then handed it back to him and asked no questions.

Juan Valdez, it turned out, did have cocaine in his bag -- coated in peanut butter and stuffed in a wine skin -- which Milkovich never saw but suspected nonetheless. On the flight, both sat at opposite ends of the cabin, but when they landed in New York, Milkovich had chased Valdez down and asked quietly, surreptitiously, "yo dude, you wouldn't happen to know where I could score some real Brazilian imports, would you?" and Valdez had paused again, then responded with a time and a place, and Milkovich had showed up and from then on, he had a golden connection.

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Like this excerpt? Read the entire thing (so far) here.

Every time I go somewhere that like, normal people go, I'm always like WOAH. Like, I forgot there's people like this.

The Vivian Girls are 3 Brooklyn hipster chicks, probably in their early 20s, who write really awesome, P'fork-endorsed, shoegaze meets '60s girl group meets punk rock songs, such as this little gem:

(Watch it. It's amazing.)

They also played at my former house/burgeoning tweenester (that's teenage scenester) hang-out Pilam (too bad whoever took this video was retarded), which is like 9080980 extra scene points.

Lots of internet-ers, however, were very disappointed in the band after watching this interview, in which the girls come across as obnoxious, self-obsessed, vapid scenesters, but all I can think is -- I've heard this conversation 10000 times.

Vivian Girls: Fish Out of Water...Sometimes.

Scenesters and pretension go hand in hand, yet the readers of Stereogum (hipsters if I was ever betting) are furious at the band for their transparency. Yeah, they're fucking obnoxious. Yes, I want to punch them in the face. But will I stop listening to their music? No, because their music is awesome. And because really, they're just detailing what everyone else is thinking, but would never admit.

I can't tell whether this is a conscious move on the part of the Viv Girls, to stir up some bloggy buzz and craft an image for themselves (in which case: well done), or whether they just are sort of naively dumb, even if they perfectly understand what being a hipster means. Either way, they seem to know their place. And they have 19 other interview videos available on Stereogum. Rock on Vivian Girls.

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This is why I was always cast as children in theatrical productions

Last night, at the Yeasayer show, I went to buy beer. The beer store clerk carded me, saying I looked like I was "14 or 15."

For your reference, here are some photos of 14- and 15-year-olds (thanks Google Image results):





Really? I swear I look at least 16!

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Webisodes: Short Story Part 8

Josh, of course, recognized Marilyn Morrissey from the Sandlot, but had never really talked to her until he found himself in her apartment. He was stopping by to visit Patrick McKee the next morning, for reasons you should be able to deduce if you've been following the story, but McKee wasn't home, or wasn't answering, and Marilyn caught him by chance on her way in from the beer distributor.

"You're Josh Stadt, right?" she said offhandedly, flipping her scarf over her shoulder. (It was warm; Marilyn was channeling Stevie Nix.) "I've heard your band, Fraggle, not too bad."

(She had also, as a reporter for the Meatball, heard all about Stadt's forays into the old RE-habilitation centers, and even provided snarky commentary on such matters, although secretly, she thought it made Fraggle much much cooler, even if Babyshambles snagged a better name.)

"Yeah?" said Josh. "Well I've heard of you; you fainted on the stage last night at the Sandlot while dressed like Sexy Betty-Bo-Baseball."

"You're a gay man, and I know you loved it," retorted Marilyn, and "Hey, what are you doing around these parts anyway?"

Sort of like this, only more punk rock.

"Actually, just stopping by to see if McKee was around. But apparently, he ain't. If you see him for me, could you...well, would you mind giving him my number?"

Marilyn raised her eyebrows.

"Not for a date or anything, just for..."

"Oh, I know," said Marilyn, and then, "Sure, give it to me."

"And um," continued Josh, "I know you run that hipster blog thing with Bree, could you maybe not mention it? I'm sort of not so into the public knowing everything about my life."

Marilyn looked at him, appearing to consider.

"Ok," she said, "but you have to do something for me."

"What's that?" he asked.

"Oh, I don't know," said Marilyn shrugging. "Tell me your secrets. How you write songs. I'm a songwriter. I want to know." She held up her bag from the beer distributor and nodded toward it. "Six pack of High Life, the champagne of beers!"

Josh smiled. "Ok, but strictly off-the-record." He paused. "Can I say that?"

Marilyn grunted. "All you stupid rock stars think you can tell me whatever the fuck you want and just say "off-the-record!" and it doesn't count. Is this what they teach you in rock star school?"

Josh smirked. "It's what they teach you in rehab!"

Because there is no way this dude is wrong.

"So what's the secret?" asked Marilyn, slurping her High Life, back in her apartment, on the couch. It was her favorite beer, because she found the "Champagne of Beers" slogan hilarious. "What makes Fraggle so freaking rad?"

"Rad?" asked Josh incredulously. "Before you said we were not bad."

"Yeah, alright, I was playing it cool, whatever dude," said Marilyn, and then "does it have something to do with turmoil? I feel that my music is very much influenced by the concept of turmoil."

Josh tapped on his can. "Maybe," he said. "A song can come out of anywhere. Emotion, sometimes, or sometimes just beats or notes, or maybe a certain setting on my keyboard. What sort of turmoil you have going on in your life? Compulsive fainting?"

"Very funny," said Marilyn blushing, and then, "you know, turmoil about the world. Tragedy."

"Honestly?" said Josh. "I try not to think about turmoil and tragedy. But I think it creeps in there anyway." He pauses. "What else you got?"

"Oh, I don't know," said Marilyn. She slouched in her seat. "Really, I don't have any specific questions. I just thought you might be cool to hang out with."

"I am cool to hang out with," said Josh defensively. He chugged the rest of his beer, jumped up and gave Marilyn a high-five. "American party boy!"

High five!

"So," said Marilyn when he sat back down again. "What do you think of the Brooklyn Meatball? Ever read it? I've picked you guys as Daily Bean Slop twice. And that's a compliment."

"Nah, I have nothing to say about the Brooklyn Meatball. But your band, Menstrual whatever-the-fuck, let's talk about them. Because you guys should really consider getting into the Village environmental theater movement or something with the showtunes and fainting and what have you."

"You're really into me fainting, aren't you?" replied Marilyn, almost bitter. "This is the third time you brought it up!"

"Nah, I'm sorry," said Josh. "That was just insane to watch. I've seen people faint a lot in my days, and to just get up there again and play the whole thing off like it was nothing...I don't know you, and I don't want to assume anything...but all I could think was damn, I got to get me some of whatever SHE's on."

Marilyn smiled. "I run on pure turmoil, baby." She paused. "You want me to give Patrick your number?"

"Yeah, alright," said Josh, and -- "Got a pen?"

"Got a pen AND a piece of paper," said Marilyn. "A reporter is always prepared."

"Hey, off-the-record, you promised," whined Josh.

"No, I'm just kidding," said Marilyn quickly, handing him both, and then "don't let Patrick sell you on that morphine shit, I swear-to-god, I think it's smack."

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Like this excerpt? Read the entire thing (so far) here.

Demographic Study: The Book-in-the-Bar Guy

The Book-in-the-Bar Guy is fairly self-explanatory -- he's that douchebag taking up a perfectly good stool at the bar, reading a dog-eared copy of L'Etranger, or poetry, nursing his Long Trail IPA and ignoring everybody else around him.



What is he doing reading his book in the bar? It's hard to say. Maybe he's waiting for someone. Maybe he's killing time. Maybe he likes some background noise when he reads, and thinks hey, what's better than the idle chatter of slightly intoxicated people. Could be. But I tend to think of the Book-in-the-Bar guy as a hopeless romantic type, who has mistaken the bar for a coffee shop, and thinks if he plunks down and appears engrossed, a beautiful, single, literary young lady will saddle up besides him, ask what he's reading, and they'll engage in fascinating conversation about Joyce and Eliot. Only he'll be drunk, so he won't be nervous.

I suppose I can see how this might seem like a good idea in theory, but in reality, it doesn't really work. Attempting to read a book in a loud, dimly-lit bar just makes you look like an asshole, and no girl wants to approach the guy who looks like he is having the least fun of everyone there. To seem casual and approachable, try doing the crossword puzzle, or, if you must, flipping through a City Paper.




I've countered the BITB guy twice in the past months, at two of my fave local bars. Both times I ended up sitting directly next to BITB, at the end of a row of friends. And both times, I thought to myself -- Man, I hope BITB guy wasn't hoping some girl would sit down next to him and ask him what he's reading, because I really don't feel like talking to him. I imagine most people have the same response.

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