Ok, so really I'm not sure what's going on in this video (girls have a "gas fest", steal a car, start a parade and randomly break out into choreography in the middle of the street...) but check it out...
When Marilyn Morrissey was depressed, she liked to listen to Turn on the Bright Lights, the first album by Interpol. It was a secret she'd never admit -- even in 2006, Interpol weren't cool unless you were 13 -- but one which she indulged in freely, and even frequently, as Marilyn Morrissey was frequently depressed.
At her most depressed, Marilyn liked to forgo her usual benzos routine in favor of red wine, which seemed more sophisticated, and very ex-patriot. Thus, this was how Patrick McKee found her on Thursday night -- noticeably sloppy, lips purple, blaring "PDA."
"There was some guy by here today looking for you," said McKee, after knocking several times, and hollering through the door, until Marilyn finally heard and turned down the music. "Older guy, tee-shirt, baseball cap...know anything about it?"
"Not Josh Stadt?" asked Marilyn, hopeful, and McKee shook his head.
Marilyn paused, sipping her wine, and offered McKee a glass. He declined.
"Honestly, I have no idea who it could be," said Marilyn. "What did you tell him?"
"I didn't tell him anything," said McKee, "other than that you live here, which he seemed to already know, and that I didn't know when you'd be home. The whole thing was a little odd."
"Well, thanks for passing along the message," said Marilyn drunkenly, and Patrick exited, and she turned up "PDA" once more and shut the door.
Reid Pinkin, meanwhile, was frustrated. He was frustrated that all potential leads on the King and Queen Nation were stagnating, and that he still hadn't found out Jesse's source. He was also frustrated because El-Rey kept bugging him to "do something" about the rat at the Sandlot -- ever since El-Rey had been punched in the face, Weinstein had banned him from all furtive missions.
Reid had asked El-Rey many a time how he expected him to go about finding said perpetrator, short of kidnapping an informant, and torturing them until they told -- a method that Reid regarded with both skepticism and discomfort -- and El-Rey, predictably, had no suggestions. But both were convinced that Bree and Marilyn knew more than they were letting on -- after all, the Meatball WAS tuned in to the bar's inner-workings, and Bree and Marilyn seemed to work hard/play hard -- a combo that often went hand-in-hand with drugs.
Reid worried that Bree was onto him -- her pointing him out at the Sandlot was a good clue -- and he wanted to try to reach out to Marilyn before his cover was blown. Thus he found himself reluctantly turning to his brother El-Rey, who Marilyn would be less likely to recognize, and arranging a meeting between them the following night.
IfReid Pinkin was amorphous and nondescript, El-Rey Pinkin was the exact opposite. Tall, burly, and a little chubby, El-Rey clocked in at about 6 feet, 200 pounds -- big enough to be a football player, if only he wasn't always tripping over his own feet.
Needless to say, El-Rey was NOT Marilyn Morrissey's type. Nevertheless, Reid had developed a plan for making sure the two crossed paths. El-Rey would wait vigilantly in front of Marilyn's building until she came outside for a cigarette. (Reid's observations taught him that while Marilyn was not a regular smoker, she would usually indulge in at least one smoke per night.) While there, El-Rey would ask for a light, and then pretend to recognize her from Menstrual Mustache. He would ask a few questions about the band, then comment about the Sandlot's reopening and pump her for details.
It was a foolproof plan, and Reid was confident that even his oafish brother could pull it off. Thus, he armed El-Rey with a wireless mic (to record the conversation) and a skull cap, and sent him off to wait it out in Bushwick.
If El-Rey Pinkin were an animal, he'd definitely be a raccoon.
Reid's plan would have gone swimmingly well, had not Marilyn decided to spend the following Friday night at Bree's. It was exactly one week since the Sandlot's grand opening -- one long, tumultuous week -- and Thomas Sandleby was working, and Jesse Milkovich getting some long needed R&R, and Bree and Marilyn decided to take it easy and have a girl's night in and watch movies and smoke pot.
Marilyn left for Bree's place straightaway after work -- she already had a toothbrush and contact solution there -- and didn't return to Bushwick until around noon the next morning. By that time, El-Rey Pinkin, who was a bit slow on the uptake, if dedicated to a cause, had been waiting nearly 18 hours, high as fuck on cocaine and more than a little pissed off.
The second that Marilyn set foot on the premises, El-Rey's Marilyn-sensing neurotransmitters went into overdrive, and without even thinking, he raced towards her charging, picked her up and threw her over his shoulder.
"What the fuck?" yelled Marilyn, and "Hey, put me down, you asshole," but El-Rey barely noticed, his muscles operating on autopilot, and before he knew what was happening, he had stuffed Marilyn into the backseat of his car and was off driving.
"Let me out, you fucker!" Marilyn screamed, and "Where the fuck are you taking me?" but El-Rey paid no attention and continued driving, unsure himself as to his destination.
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When I was in middle school, back before the days of the Internet, and wasting 48989898 hours a day on g-chat, my buddies and I had an elaborate system of note-passing. First there were regular notes -- Look at Easter bunny today. He looks cute! -- always written in code, and passed via surreptitious hand-offs or hollowed out pens -- moves that flirted with danger, even though we sort of enjoyed the risk. What if Mr. Mix catches us passing notes? Will he...READ THEM OUT LOUD? Never once did we suspect that 10 years later, people would be passing "virtual" notes out in the open for all to see, prominently displayed on facebook "walls."
Regular notes generally came elaborately folded (if from a girl), or wadded up into tiny balls (if from a guy), so that the process of opening the note was usually the riskiest part of the transaction, especially if the paper was thick or crinkly. The possibility of notes being lost or intercepted later was also a big risk, and for this reason, my friend Zack used to immediately eat all notes passed during 7th grade English -- a behavior I found both bizarre and charming.
For my closest friends however, individual notes were not special enough -- instead we had to have our own notebooks, decorated with magazine collages and filled with code names, rants and raves, and boring descriptions of how bored we were during class. In one such notebook, we first began The Yellow Food Cafe, a long, serial novel which eventually became too big for the notebook, and which later evolved into The Yellow Food Cafe: The Play, which brought confusion and mild amusement to our Friday afternoon drama class.
The Yellow Food Cafe was basically the story of our lives -- only highly idealized (in YFC, my crush, who normally ran away when he saw me, and I were dating), dramatized (over the course of about 10 stories, I believe: a movie theater burnt down; one kid flunked out of school and formed his own college; the art teacher morphed into a horrible, terrifying alien; there were massive civil rights movements for Tall, Medium, and Short People's Civil Rights; and great rock band, the Purple Crayons, was formed), and set in a town called Color Town. The characters' names were cleverly based on our own: my crush, Bobby Starter, was Robbie Blarter; his best friend, Pete Maitlock was Pierre Caiklock; buddies Zack Romson and Greg Newart were Dlack Pompson and Craig Lewart.
The Yellow Food Cafe was passed around, on paper and in binders, among at least 10 people, who would read it, add to it, or leave comments. Looking back, it was not dissimilar to a blog, and the slow pace of circulation (unlike a blog post, which everyone can read and respond to immediately) kept us from becoming quickly bored. I am sure if I read the Yellow Food Cafe today I would think it was terrible -- but then again, so is every blog post ever written by anyone under age 13. (For proof, check out xanga.com).
Some of the offerings you might find at the Yellow Food Cafe.
One of the great things about passing notes and writing stories was that you were always keenly aware of everyone's handwriting. My friends and I used to draw little cartoons and doodles too (Here's Mr. Mix wearing a hockey uniform - haha!) and there's something so expressive in the way that people form letters and draw figures that we really don't get to experience anymore.
I may have been overthinking it, but I was firmly convinced handwriting was a determining factor in how attractive you were -- my friend Julie, who was tall, blond and skinny, had this super neat, tall, skinny writing that I couldn't copy if I tried; and my friend Katie, who was bubbly and adorable and fashionable had this super-loopy, effortless cursive...
Sir Isaac Newton's handwriting: illegible, and ugly. And we put credence in this whole 'gravity' idea?
When we get really bored at work, my friends and I pass around black and white computer printouts of celebrities, and write funny captions on them, and color in their eyes and black out their teeth with pens and whiteout and markers, and pass them around and add to them. We're all delightfully nerdy editors, and I like to think, pretty funny when we want to be, and so these monstrosities circulate to 20 people and by the end, they're liable to induce laughter for at least 5 minutes. You can comment on somebody's facebook photos from the night before for a good 20 or 30 comments - but you can't do THAT on the internet.
Duke Special, aka Peter Wilson, is an Irish singer-songwriter, known for his intimate, delicate folk rock melodies and nontraditional instrumentation -- including, but not limited to: cheese graters, egg beaters, pots, spoons, and his trusty old gramophone. I heard about Duke Special through a friend of a friend, who is living in Ireland raising horses (must be the life!) and has seen him live several times.
DS's melodies are wistful, sweet, and plaintive --but more in a pop confectionary way than an Elliott Smith kind of way. Most frolic and skip like a firstgrader on their way home from school; a couple simmer and thicken like homemade soup. Music for the morning, or the afternoon, or after dinner - any time really!
The strange nondescript looking man, once identified as Bartholomew, was not an undercover cop. (I know what you're thinking.) Rather, he was Reid Pinkin, the amorphous and slimy cousin of Weinstein Pinkin, who ran one of the biggest cocaine rings in Brooklyn. Weinstein's other cousin and Reid's brother, El-Rey Pinkin, was the guy controlling the guy who sold to Linelli and Jess Smidge, the former Back Lot bartender who was arrested with a lot of pomp and circumstance.
Reid was a former screen actor, who was often cast as an extra in large crowd scenes where the focus was on somebody else -- as a result, he had learned how to blend in with the background, unlike brother El-Rey, whose fiery temper often got him into trouble. (It was El-Rey who was punched in the face by Ted the Bouncer at the Sandlot's opening, after he became drunk and enraged about the arrests and stormed the bar looking for "that goddamned Jew cop!" -- he was also a self-hating Jew.)
Reid was intrigued by Jesse because he had heard (as barflies often do) that Jesse was doing a photo story on the Almighty King and Queen Nation, and because he had also heard he had coke. The ALKQN was a major coke supplier, making them a major competitor, and while Weinstein was highly suspicious of them, he was also careful -- he knew the Nation was not to be messed with.
Reid Pinkin in a crowd scene - again, with a hat!
Reid's job was to stick around the bar and ascertain as much as possible about Jesse, the Nation, the cops, and anything else that seemed pertinent or relevant. Bree and Marilyn had no idea that their meeting a few nights ago was not by chance, but explicitly planned out, and that Reid had followed them to the bar, and later followed Marilyn back to the Sandlot, and even watched her leave with Josh Stadt. Reid did not view his behavior as creepy or weird -- it was all in a day's work -- and he tried to appear as normal as possible, possibly with an air of aloofness to keep people from asking questions.
Reid was 37, divorced, working 20 hours a week at the Key Food supermarket down the street (to look good for the records) and acting as Weinstein's righthand man the rest of the time. He was a recovering smack addict who spent 3 years in jail and 6 months in rehab and was still using when his cousin picked him up by his bootstraps, hit him upside the nose with a 2x4 every time he used, and placed in his hands instead a large baggie of coke, which he said was all he could dream of, and more, if he would just get his act together.
Really, Weinstein just needed his cousin conscious to act as live bait in a staged break-in of an enemy dealer's warehouse. Reid was forced into the situation unwittingly, but had performed valiantly, using his acting skills and pretending to be a concerned pedestrian who was walking by and heard "loud noises." Reid's successful improv bought Weinstein's men extra time to make their getaway, and the operation was a success because of him. From then on, Weinstein treated Reid with dignity and respect.
Princeton grad David Duchovny suffers from other crippling addiction: a sex addiction
Jesse Milkovich was not sure what was up with Reid (to him: the mysterious fellow) but he knew something was up. Jesse had always had really good instincts, and ever since the tumultuous incident at age 15, he had learned to pay attention to them. Jesse did not like to stew about things -- stewing was inactive, and he liked to be moving -- but he also did not like the uneasy feeling that the previous night's encounter left in the pit of his stomach.
The past few weeks of hard work, near seclusion (besides a few key outings, like the Sandlot opening) and constant and varied drug use were finally starting to wear on Jesse, and he couldn't tell if his paranoia was real, or the result of another drug-addled trip. He had spent the last 3 days in an almost continuous opium trip, during which time he had not only composed a moving and elegiac poem about the King and Queen Nation, which would serve as the intro to the forthcoming issue of Tie-Rack, but he had nearly finished editing and selecting photos for the issue as well. Normally, when paranoia started setting in, Jesse knew it was time for a break, but he was this close to finishing...
Nevertheless, that Thursday, Jesse decided to put down the pipe and go talk to Thomas Sandleby. He had been sort of avoiding Sandleby recently, although he would never admit it (the whole Bree thing made him feel slightly uncomfortable), and he wanted to make amends, as well as get his opinion on the whole mysterion situation.
This is the first Google image result when you search "Opium trip." Why? You tell me.
Thomas Sandleby, understandably, was perturbed. Thom trusted Jesse -- they were good friends from Tie-Rack, and Jesse had first introduced him to the Sandlot -- so when Jesse reiterated what Thom was already thinking, he started feeling a little spooked.
Like Jesse, Thom usually didn't like to worry about anything either (perhaps why the two got along so well) and neither of them seemed particularly thrilled to be having a worrisome conversation. But there comes a time in every man's life when he has to take responsibility for his actions, and Thom felt ready to step up to the plate. (Working at the Sandlot caused him to think in baseball metaphors.)
"What do you think this guy wants?" asked Thom, and then "I think, no more drug use in here, for a little while. This bar was just in the spotlight, and they, whoever they are, are watching us. We need to keep a low profile. And get Bree and Marilyn to stop posting photos and shit all over the internet."
Like this excerpt? Read the whole thing (so far) here.
I-Dress-Like-This-Normally Girl is that chick at the concert -- or maybe the bar, if it's her birthday or something -- wearing an absolutely ridiculous, over-the-top outfit, generally comprised of several very of-the-moment trends placed capriciously together, for a result that is somewhere between West Coast hipster and Elle editorial fashion shoot, and which causes IDLTN Girl to walk around with her nose in the air, like she is better than everyone else because of it.
Some examples of I-Dress-Like-This-Normally girl; images via Facehunter.
In almost all cases, I-Dress-Like-This-Normally Girl does NOT dress like this normally -- it would be nearly impossible for anyone to dress like this normally -- but enjoys the illusion and theatrics of dressing so lavishly and finds it gives her an unnatural confidence boost. In almost all cases, IDLTN Girl is accompanied by at least two friends, who are also dressed quite outrageously - and by 10 p.m., IDLTN Girl is drunk. A sober IDLTN Girl is about as rare as an Arizona fan in Philadelphia -- if you spot an IDLTN Girl without a redbull and vodka in her hand, you can assume she is already high on some other drug.
At a concert, IDLTN Girl will avoid talking to anyone other than her ridiculously dressed friends and members of the band. In fact, meeting the band is often the primary goal of IDLTN Girl, and her outfit is often nothing more than an attempt to win the band members' favor. IDLTN Girl wouldtotally hook up with the band members in their tour van after the show, if only indie rockers these days weren't so freakin' asexual.
Kings of Leon: tell me these guys just don't scream "FUCK ME!"
As mentioned previously, IDLTN Girl loves theatrics, so try to maintain your distance from her, lest you may accidentally bump into her and cause her to pick a fight. IDLTN Girl is drunk, and looking for any excuse to act outrageously, so when she spills half her drink on the floor because she's grinding against the side of the stage and flailing her head about needlessly, let it go...unless you have a videocamera on hand, in which case, record that shit and get it on youtube.
This is the most pathetic fight I've ever seen.
What IDLTN Girl doesn't realize, and what is painfully obvious to everyone else around her -- is that while IDLTN Girl is trying really hard to seem hip and important, she actually comes across as immature and like she's trying too hard - a poser. IDLTN Girl may be annoying, but resist the urge to punch her in the face - chances are, somebody else already has.
When Bree Dawson walked into the Sandlot the following evening, she immediately found Thom Sandleby and planted a big kiss on his forehead.
"Hiya, toots," she said, and plopped down at the bar. Bree liked feeling important, and her budding romance with the Sandlot's new owner was definitely making her feel that way. She ordered a shot of JB and leaned towards him. It was around 7:00, and the after-work crowd was just starting to drift out. She noticed an older fellow in a black Pixies tee shirt and Dodgers baseball cap standing up as if to leave -- the man from the bar two nights earlier!
"Hey you!" she called out, as the man headed for the door. He didn't respond and continued walking. "Hey YOU!" yelled Bree louder, and jumped off her barstool and tapped the man on the shoulder.
He turned around, startled.
"Yes?" said the man.
"I recognize you," said Bree. "You're the fellow from the Pond, a few nights earlier. Fancy seeing you here. You look different."
"And you," said the man. "Said you were on a tour with the circus, and in town for one day only. Fancy seeing you here too," he added, then turned, and casually slunk out the door.
Shady McShadester: engaging in shadyness
Back at the bar, Thomas Sandleby was perturbed.
"Who was that dude?" he asked Bree. Now that he was owner of the Sandlot, he wanted to have a good grip on his patrons. The fellow in question was quite nondescript, and Thom wasn't sure whether or not he recognized him as a regular.
"Some weird dude," said Bree. "Who Marilyn and I met the other night on our girl's night out, and who drunkenly tried to get us to go back to his place with him." She shuddered, then paused. "I don't know, he kind of creeps me out. And last time I saw him, he looked completely different. He was definitely wearing a fedora."
Thom pressed his lips together, and thought about it.
"I don't like him," he declared. "I think we need to be very, very careful around that guy."
Be very, very careful
Marilyn Morrissey had a bad feeling about spending the night with Josh Stadt. This was not surprising -- Marilyn had a bad feeling about many things -- particularly relationships -- and even platonic ones, although she was worried that maybe she had more than just a platonic crush on Josh.
Josh, meanwhile, was slightly repulsed about the idea of making out with a girl, even though he thought Marilyn was interesting, and sexy, and wasn't quite sure how he should react. He half suspected that Marilyn might like him more -- perhaps in that way -- and felt slightly uncomfortable at the thought.
Josh had been really excited to meet Marilyn -- more excited than he'd been in a long time, and he worried that jumping the gun and spending the evening at her place only meant he still had no self-control, and was still prone to bouts of excess. He hadn't meant to let things progress like this -- he just wanted to hang out, and shoot the shit with her, maybe grab a beer occasionally -- but once again, he had led himself down the primrose path of destruction and now his newly founded friendship felt awkward and stilted.
More than just friends fo' sho'
Thatvery evening, Jesse Milkovich spotted the strange, nondescript-looking older man loitering in front of his Brooklyn townhouse as he headed home from the studio. The man looked up when Jesse stuck his key in the keyhole, and Jesse stared him down icily for a second, before asking "Can I help you with something?"
"Hey man," said the dude. "I'm just looking to buy some good shit, if you know what I mean. Do you know anyone that can help me out?"
Jesse shook his head, his insides going crazy, and replied, "Nah man, sorry, I can't help you," and ducked inside his apartment.
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Dad described them as "the second coming of the Beatles, only without a good marketing team," which is probably a stretch, although it certainly sounds impressive. The band was led by Alex Chilton (yes, this Alex Chilton), who also headed up '60s rock band the Box Tops, and who used his expert songwriting skills to craft a litany of catchy, poppy melodies that only get better with each listen.
Live in Stockholm, 2006
The group disbanded in 1974, but reformed in the '90s with a modified line-up to continue touring. I've been listening to their debut release, #1 Record, nonstop these past few weeks -- highly recommended for fans of Wilco, the Replacements, and Teenage Fanclub.
The women in my family have always been hard-workers. My grandmother worked for a chemical manufacturing company for 40 years, moving her way up the ranks slowly, until she could afford the one bedroom apartment that my mom and my aunt grew up in; my mom later became the first woman in the family to go to college --nevermind law school.
As for myself, I like to think I'm doing alright--I certainly don't make a lot of money, but at least I have a halfway respectable job and a good (if expensive) education. (Or at least: I need some way to justify my good but expensive education.) What I don't have a lot of is free time.
I complain about working in a cubicle, but my grandmother started off doing things like this before she got promoted to an office position
This too, I think, runs in the family. My grandmother had a full schedule of lunches and jazzercise classes until the day she died, and my mom always made it to every soccer and hockey game on time, in addition to volunteering for the school board, and the drama club, and working parttime. As a child, my schedule was always packed with activities, from sports practice (when I was younger) to dance practice, and play practice, and my personal favorite, debate team practice.
My schedule in high school pretty much sucked: I'd wake up at 6:30 every morning, get to school by 7:15, get out at 2:30, piss around at aforementioned practices until 6 or 7, go home, eat dinner, do homework/piss around on the internet til about midnight, talk to my high school boyfriend on the phone til 1 or 2 or 3 a.m. (depending on what type of conversation we were having), go to sleep, wake up the next morning and do it again. Saturdays I had debate tournaments all day long, and Sunday mornings were reserved for church and CCD.
Here I am chowing down on a sandwich during a debate tournament at Hanover Park High School my senior year. This also might be the single most unflattering photo of me ever taken. The guy in the foreground, with his face blurred, was my junior year prom date. The guy seated next to me is my friend Chris, who was my senior year prom date. The girl in the background is just a rando.
How did I do this? I don't know. What I do know is that I missed an awful lot of TV and videogame time in my youth, and that now, at 23, I still don't know what to do with myself when I have a free evening. (Especially since I have neither TV nor videogames in my apartment.)
Luckily, I am fairly good at keeping myself occupied. Most nights, I have a writing assignment to tackle, or a concert to attend, or a dinner/party/drinking excursion/fair amount of toothpastefordinner to catch up on. I like keeping busy so I don't have to sit around and think -- thinking makes me emotional, and I'd rather just go and do.
People around me are very interested in 5 year plans, in setting up a timeline for where they want to be, and when, and planning for a future that is always uncertain. I feel like my whole life has been like this -- school lays it out pretty clear for you -- and these days, I'm happy taking it as it comes, and not thinking about what's 1, 3 or 5 years down the line. (certainly not more school!)
My mother and my grandmother were great thinkers and planners, and I feel a little bit bad about letting my lackadasical attitude let them down. But then again, I'm pretty sure life happens whether you've planned it or not, so maybe, just maybe, I'll be ok.
Once inside, Marilyn and Josh spilled out onto the couch and continued making out furiously, grabbing each others' hair, and rolling around with abandon. Their bodies were warm, and moist with sweat, and together on the couch, they melded into a languid mess.
"Ohhh, Ohh!" cried Marilyn between kisses, and Josh pressed his face closer to hers and then pulled away, trying to determine if her cheek was wet with sweat or tears.
"Don't mind me, I'm just being dramatic," said Marilyn, wiping her eyes, and Josh kissed her again, and pulled her body close.
They woke up a few hours later sprawled out awkwardly on opposite ends of the couch. Both shrugged sheepishly, got up, and moved to Marilyn's bed, where they slept soundly side by side.
The Goldenblums spent all their money on lavish clothing for the children, and could not afford to buy beds!
"So, hi, first off," said Marilyn the next morning, rolling over to find Josh beside her. "I don't think I ever welcomed you here last night, and second. . .wow. That was weird." She sat up.
Josh sat up beside her. "Marilyn," he said. "Marilyn Morrissey." He paused. "Marilyn Monroe...combined with the great Morrissey. That's you alright. Sexy, dark and a little bit twisted." He smiled. "Yeah, that was weird," he said. "But I think ok."
Marilyn sighed, and turned and spun her feet towards the floor. She was blushing slightly and didn't want Josh to notice. She had fallen asleep completely clothed, and her button-up tee was disheveled and unbuttoned over her stomach, and her hair was a mess. Not quite the sexy chic she hoped for, but what was she hoping for? Josh Stadt was a gay man. Still, she didn't want to look like a trainwreck.
"So...I guess I should be going?" asked Josh Stadt after a long pause.
Marilyn frowned. "Yeah, I guess." She shook her head. "It's weird dude, you know, this feels like an awkward one-night-stand, the-next-morning type of thing, but we didn't even sleep together."
Josh raised his eyebrows. "Is this awkward? It's only awkward if you make it awkward." He smiled. "Goodbye for now, Marilyn Morrissey. Perhaps I'll catch you around the Sandlot later this week?" He took a step forward. "I'm there almost every night!" he added, and exited out the front door.
Marilyn Monroe + Morrissey = ?
When Bree Dawson found out about Marilyn and Josh Stadt, she pretty much freaked out.
"OH my god, I hope you don't have AIDS!" she said.
"Shut the fuck up," said Marilyn; then, "Seriously, what the fuck Bree? Why would you say something like that?"
"Well, I'm just saying," said Bree. "Josh is prone to anonymous needles AND anonymous cocks. He's the most likely victim I know."
"Shut the fuck up, Bree," said Marilyn again. "Do you know anything about Josh Stadt having AIDS?"
"No," said Bree.
"Well then," said Marilyn. "I'm going to assume he does not have AIDS. I think usually that is the kind of thing you share with people. And besides, I'm pretty sure you can't transmit AIDS through making out."
"I'm just giving you a hard time; cheer up 'ole Sourpuss," said Bree, slapping her on the shoulder. "You should be happy! You just made out with a mad famous gay rock star."
"Of course I did," said Marilyn. "Making out with gay rock stars is what I do. Now write a freaking blog about it already!"
The story about Josh and Marilyn's makeout session did NOT make it onto the Meatball, as both girls were afraid of making the situation awkward/more awkward than it already was (/might be. They couldn't tell yet.)
They DID, however, do an elaborate post on the Sandlot's re-opening, coupled with a slew of photos snapped by someone's cousin's photographer friend, including a shot of Thomas Sandleby holding Bree in his arms (her knees slung over his elbow, baseball uniform slightly askew), with a big lipstick stain on his forehead.
And of course, because this is how things always go, one of Ronald Harris's colleagues would forward this photo to Harris, with a subjectline that read, "More proof that Brooklyn is the most overrated place in the country" and Harris would recognize Sandleby's name, and forward it on to his girlfriend (soon to be finance), Rachel Lubovich and she would think "God, what a trainwreck," just like Thom suspected.
Little did he realize this was only the beginning.
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Annie is a dance-y Norwegian pop star, best known for her track "Heartbeat", which Pitchfork called the best single of 2004. (And it IS killer.)
She first burst onto the scene back in 1999, with the oh-so-cutely named club sensation "Greatist Hit." This past November, she hit the big 3-0 mark, meaning that Scandinavia's favorite airy blonde has been making music for nearly a decade.
Her newest album, Don't Stop, has yet to be officially released (a departure with her record label led to inevitable delays), but was leaked on the internet a few months ago. The songs are amazing, and the video for "I know UR girlfriend hates me" is fierce:
If I were a middle school student, I would definitely choreograph a dance to this for the school talent show. If only our American pop stars were this classy!