Neighborhood Watch: YouTubin' the '90s

Forget the heat wave and the pretty sundresses that surfaced for a hot second there -- the most noticeable thing goin' on in my neighborhood these days is POLLEN, everywhere and anywhere, drifting down from the trees branches and being carried across the street, covering sidewalks, and infecting the entire outdoors with its smell. Which can only mean one thing: allergies.

Here at Underwater Explosions HQ (aka, my bedroom), we're all suffering hardcore (aka, just me) and no amount of Benadryl can help (too much just makes you numb, and sleepy). And while hanging out inside when it's gorgeous out seems like a missed opportunity (although really it's not too gorgeous right now), I've found something else to entertain me. Specifically, I have discovered: '90s music videos.

spin, spin sugar

Oh man, remember when MTV used to play videos all the time? I was probably in 5th or 6th grade, and was just starting to get into music -- kids in my class liked Nirvana, and Presidents of the United States, and Pearl Jam -- and I'd watch whenever I had a chance (Mom didn't like me watching MTV), mesmerized by the trippy images.

come as you are



glycerine. Isn't Gavin Rossdale sexy?



nothing compares to you -when this video came out, I thought Sinead
O'Connor was a weirdo for cutting her hair. Now, I kinda like it.

A well-made music video is like a drug -- it transports you to another world, full of sensory experiences. The alt-rockers of the '90s really got it right -- and we're lucky their genius has been preserved for the world to see. Thanks, internet.

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Webisodes: Short Story Part 27

Marilyn Morrissey's first "response" to her ad was a piece of meaningless drivel:

Hey baby wat up? u hot, text me at 919-4444-HOT and we'll make some magic *wink*

Ugh, gross, she thought, hitting the delete button. Was this what it all was going to be like? She certainly hoped not.

But as soon as she deleted the message, another one popped up:

Grrr, sexy photo, lol. you can handle my bat, sister.

Marilyn groaned. Even worse! Where do these guys come from, she thought.

She glanced at the top of her screen. Next to inbox, it said: (3). Three messages! These OkCupid guys certainly don't waste any time! She sighed, then hit delete on message 2.

The third message came up on her screen:

I would expect the cousin of Morrissey would be British -- are you really his cousin, or just some sort of sad noir hipster with an affection for irony? Either way, I'm intrigued. I'm not really a Smiths fan -- but I am a fan of girls with a little 'tude. Are you dressing up as an American for Halloween?

--Derek

Charming, thought Marilyn, and I hope he's not fat. Wait a minute...is there a way to browse profiles on this thing?

lol, baseball

While Marilyn Morrissey was mastering the wide world of dating on OkCupid.com, Josh Stadt was floundering in the real world of dating. Specifically: Josh Stadt was starting to annoy the shit out of Marcus Roy, who did not find his drug-addled antics nearly as amusing as Josh did.

Josh Stadt was semi-famous, Marcus knew, and like it not, he knew this allowed Josh some leeway. All famous people were a little crazy, he knew -- wouldn't he be crazy if he were famous? Marcus practically went crazy just thinking about it.

Still, enough was enough! Josh had been popping benzos all week long, running around the apartment, singing at top volume and strumming his guitar loudly, wearing weird clothing, staying up all night -- it was out of control.

"Josh, I can not take this any longer!" yelled Marcus one afternoon after Josh finished composing a "tribute" to Marcus, the lyrics to which went "Marcus Marcus, Farkus, Suckus! / Marcus is the Blarkness!"

"Either this Oxascand goes, or I go!" threatened Marcus to Josh, then paused, and added, softer, "or you give me some of the Oxascand as well," and Josh Stadt smiled and remarked "well why didn't you ask me sooner?" and reached into the tiny pocket in his jeans and handed Marcus a pill.

"Prepare to be blown away," he said.

crazy dancing.

Marilyn clicked on Derek's profile. This is my thinking beard, was the headline. Okay... Marilyn didn't particularly like beards -- too scratchy -- but Derek seemed alright looking. Under "looking for" he had listed: coffee drinkers, girls who read books in the park, long dresses, laidback chicks who can go with the flow and are always up for a good time.

Marilyn Morrissey certainly wasn't a laidback chick (in fact, she took medicine for that) and she thought "long dresses" and "girls who read books in the park" sounded like something someone writes to seem romantic but doesn't really mean...but overall she was pleased. Derek didn't seem like too much of a weirdo, which meant perhaps not everyone on OkCupid was like guys 1 and 2.

She wrote back (it was easier to be forward on the internet): I'm an Brit in an American's clothing! Of course the cousin of Morrissey is British. After all, I would know. (or would I?)

I see you like girls with long dresses who read books in the park. Sometimes I blog from the park on my laptop. Cool enough?

--M


She let out a nervous giggle and hit the send button. This was turning out to be a lot more fun than she expected.

long dresses, books in the park...exactly like this.

Jesse Milkovich's date for the Creaky Boards show was none other than Lulu A. Quince (or so her email read), the adorable photographer he had meant just that afternoon. He had returned home after an afternoon of standing around outside to find a new e-mail in his inbox from her:

Hey! Sorry if I seem eager here (I have no patience), but I really enjoyed meeting you and hearing about Tie Rack! If you'd be down, I'd love to meet up somewhere and hear more 'tails...possibly over beer?

-Lulu (the photographer)

And Jesse Milkovich had shot back, right away -- wanna stop by Creaky Boards tonight at the Sandlot? My treat. (I do the booking.) and Lulu had accepted. She was small, and cute as a button, and Jesse liked her attitude. He was excited to spend an evening with someone new...Jesse needed change, and he'd take whatever he could get.

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Walkin' around in our summertime clothes...

Know where to go where our bodies go...

(a song to think cool...)

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"Hipster" is really just an excuse to be irresponsible...

...to not take showers, to stay up late and sleep in every morning, to waste your parent's money spent on expensive education working part-time in a record store or at a coffee shop, to spend your hours high, high, high, rolling cigs and hanging out on rooftops with a guitar.

Roof-topping. photo by Keith McK. Summer 2007.

It's the idea of GREAT POTENTIAL unrealized...of KNOWING you're smart and capable, but CHOOSING to lounge around disaffectedly because you CAN, because not doing so would be SELLING OUT TO THE MAN, because you're young, and THIS IS YOUR TIME TO SHINE. Besides, who doesn't want to be part of some grand, cultural MOVEMENT?

The playlist at Megawords, Philly.

In 20 years, when people look back on the hipsters as a cultural phenom -- the 21st century answer to hippies perhaps -- what will they think? What have hipsters actually contributed to society -- other than lots of art, and lo-fi garage rock bands that only hipsters like, maybe some screen-printed tee-shirts, and a resurgence in '80s fashion? We're liberal, yes, and we helped elect Obama -- but god knows hipsters weren't going door-to-door canvassing or raising money. (All we do is put tiny pins on our hoodies.) The hippies of the '60s had the Vietnam War as their raison d'être -- what do the hipsters have?

All sorts of cause-driven '60s stereotypes (plus my mod squad get-up.)
Woodstock party, 2005.

My friend Dan made fun of me the other day, for calling a band "synthtastic", and remarked that hipsters are all "jive-ass whities with colored tights" (note: Dan is also a "jive-ass whitie" -- thankfully without tights) and that it's impossible to tell the real hipsters from the posers. I think we' re all posers anymore. There's too much self-awareness, too many images of what hip is supposed to be (who decides this anyway?) that all we're doing is role-playing, contributing to something that's an empty construction, without substance.

Pilam basement, 2007.

But...at the same time...I am kinda ok with this. I'd quit my job and revel in laziness too, if I had rich parents, and I'm alright writing about music that I know 99% of the population will never listen to. It's nice to be surrounded by smart, liberal, fun-loving individuals, and riding the wave as long as we can...


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Webisodes: Short Story Part 26

For once in her life, Bree Dawson was glad to find herself not at the center of attention. It's always calmest at the eye of the storm, she thought, and indeed, she felt privileged to be the eyes of the group -- both literally, through the Meatball, and personally, as friend and confidant to all.

It made Bree proud to have such kooky and eclectic friends -- eclecticism was highly praised these days -- and she loved being part of a group that was more interesting than the rest -- artists, musicians, drug addicts, and crazy people. We should have our own TV show, she often thought, casting herself as the pretty, sane one. The ingenue!

Bree Dawson wasn't normally a boyfriend kind of girl, but that was all changing with Thomas Sandleby. He was older, of course, and therefore easier to take seriously -- or at least compared with Jesse, who was perpetually young at heart, and philandering.

Bree liked the way being with Thom made her feel -- like she was fulfilling some sort of grand relationship fantasy of summer brunches and sunset walks through Washington Square, maybe an Olsen twin or two commenting on her dress -- the living, breathing illustration of romance. It seemed like a very cool, very calm thing to do...

Cast of the Real World, Brooklyn. I'm guessing no one is actually
from Brooklyn, except maybe the douchebag in the vest. And is
one girl a midget? Are any of these dudes straight?

When Marilyn Morrissey returned home from her jam session with Josh Stadt, she was feeling good. So good in fact that when she logged on to her computer and found and e-mail from Bree -- Ahhhhhhh, I just took this quiz thinking about Thom and I switched from the Playstation to the Peach!, where the fuck are you, not on gchat!!! -- she laughed, clicked on "Start the Test," (even though she had taken it several times before, and already knew she was the Wild Rose) and then decided against it because something else caught her eye.

OkCupid is online dating.

Shutthefuckup. Marilyn Morrissey had read this phrase, located right on the main screen, maybe 10 times before (maybe more...she had taken this particular quiz a lot)-- but it had never really registered before. But then again...she was never really looking before either.

But with McKee's words ringing in her ears (if he could book a date, surely she could!) and her insides ringing with Fraggle rock (oh god, was that the first time she realized that?) she thought, fuck yes, and clicked "Sign up now." It couldn't be any more disastrous than her life already was, right?

Says Yelp user Jeffrey-"Save the Ta-Tas" H -- "OkCupid for me (a gay
male) seems like a joke. There are like 4 other dudes and they consist
of a pirate (with eye patch), a troll, an ex-con, and a dude with a
small arm."

When Jesse Milkovich swung by the Sandlot later that evening for a show, he relayed Sazz's Dan Bernstein sighting to Thomas Sandleby, who, gung-ho as he was a few days ago, seemed rather uninterested.

"So, Bernstein's still on the loose? Whatever. I mean, he's a stupid cokehead asshole and all, but he never really bothered me."

"But," said Jesse -- and why was he even bringing this up? -- "apparently, Sazz thinks he's friends with the dude who kidnapped Marilyn. Or something."

"What an asshole," said Thom. "If he comes in here ever, I give you full permission to restrict his access to the show. Unless he tells us who kidnapped Marilyn, and makes them apologize." Thom was more focused on the Yankees game, on behind him.

"Word," said Jesse. "Creaky Boards are playing tonight. You staying?"

"Should I stay?" asked Thom. He always counted on Jesse to fill him in on stuff like new bands -- Jesse was a serious filter for indie rock bands -- he saw them all, took them all in, and spit out the best of the best, what everyone needed to hear.

"Only if you want to," said Jesse, smiling. "I've got a date here tonight!"

According to some chick's Myspace, someone in this photo is in Creaky Boards.

My Self Summary, read the first part of the dating profile. Marilyn typed in, "The British fucking cousin of Morrissey, for realz", and uploaded a photo of herself in her softball costume flipping the bird to the camera. It was a classic rock star shot, in her opinion, and totally sick. Save!

I bet there's no one else in all of Brooklyn on this damn thing, thought Marilyn, and seriously, I better not get some fucker like McKee, then passed out in her bead, imagining some shy poet -- preferably skinny and shaggy-haired -- asking her out for coffee, which would be awkward of course, but she could think of things to say beforehand...and when she woke up in the morning, there was already one new message in her inbox.

She practically had a heart attack.

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Will PB+J ever release another album as awesome as Writer's Block?

...Maybe. But Living Thing (their newest) is unfortunately not it -- too many drum machines, not enough pop appeal, and certainly no generational anthem for everyone born between 1978 and 1990 (approx.).

The lead single "Nothing to worry about" sounds like it was lifted from the soundtrack to Annie, then mixed with woodblocks and naked vocals. Checkout the vid:

Peter Bjorn and John "Nothing To Worry About"

My favorite song is the title track-- here's a pretty sweet live performance of the dudes performing in a cab...

(click to link)

There's a couple others that I wasn't necessarily digging at first, but that have grown on me with subsequent listens -- "Just the past" is a sparse, love song with pulsing percussion, that slow builds to a weepy refrain, and "I want you" has a dreamy '80s Euro-pop appeal. I'm going to see PB+J May 1 at the World Cafe -- we'll see how they measure up.

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Neighborhood Watch: H&M

So...maybe I'm missing something here, but when did the Chestnut Street H&M become like, THE place to be for high school kids? I went in here today, to pick up some tights and flip-flops for spring, and was completely overwhelmed by the MASSES of Philly high school kids...hanging out in packs of 5, blocking the top of the escalator, blocking the bottom of the escalator, chasing each other around the clothing racks, and pretty much doing everything except for trying on clothes. I was like...seriously? It was like being back in the cafeteria, or the Hot Topic store at the mall. Gross.

As Tyra would say -- not bad, but it's a little commercial. You could do...catalogue.

Now, there are 2 H&M's in Philly - Chestnut Street and Walnut Street. Walnut Street is the classy, high end H&M, and Chestnut Street is the "original" location. It's also cheaper, and I hate buying anything that needs to be ironed, so I usually shop here. But. the. clientele. Oyy.

Chestnut Street. Thanks, this guy, who is apparently some sort of weirdo/H&M guru and photographs all the H&Ms.

Paying for my tights and flip-flops, the lady in front of me (a rather large lady, buying a rather small, leopard-print top) argues with the cashier (a pale, hipster dude with giant earrings and a shirt with snakes on it) about the price of the top -- "it was on the $9.95 rack! I ain't paying no 15.95 for this!" -- and I watch the two girls in front of her -- velour sweatsuit-clad, Louie Vuitton-carrying 15-year-old white girls -- look extremely perplexed when the cashier asks them if they "need a bag." Of course they need a bag! What are they supposed to do, put their purchases in one of the 5 other shopping bags they are already carrying?

From a blog called Letters To Marc Jacobs. I'll keep it at that.

Lucky, H&M's clothing is cheap. And I suppose it's somewhat humbling to be reminded of the fact that one of these people might own the very same tee-shirt I'm wearing right now.

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Cubicle Watch: Where times goes so slowly, it feels like its cubed

Anyone who actually knows me in real life knows: when I'm not running around shooting indie bands, or composing grand narratives about drug-addled Brooklyn scenesters, I'm working. Specifically, in an office. Specifically specifically, in a cubicle.



Now -- before you laugh at me, and gloat about how your life is sooooo much better because you DON'T work in a cubicle, consider this:

• My job is actually pretty sweet.
• No one bothers me in my cubicle, monitors when I come and go, or hassles me about deadlines.
• My cubicle is large.
• My cubicle is directly behind my friend Laura's cubicle and across from my friend Michelle's, which allows for maximum debauchery.
• At current, one wall of my cubicle is covered with packing peanuts, arranged in a pleasant mural form.

However, it still is -- and always will be -- a cubicle. Which leads me to ruminate on some popular cubicle myths/realities:

Dilbert: never funny until I started working in a cubicle. What does that say about me?

Myth 1: cubicles suck the life out of you.

This is only partially true. Cubicles don't suck the life out of you. Sitting in one place, motionless all day, staring at a computer screen, does. However, this is not the fault of a cubicle. Sometimes I do this at home.

Myth 2: Cubicles make people isolated.

This is probably true. Luckily for us all though, there's facebook to keep us connected, over the imposing cubicle walls.

Myth 3: Everyone who works in a cubicle hates their life.

In my office, not so much. We're mostly young, and vivacious, and have dreams of moving beyond the cube later in life. But for the disgruntled older employees of the office across the hall (who I only encounter in the bathroom, and who regularly have conversations along the lines of "How are you?" / (long sigh) "It's Tuesday") cubicledom definitely leads to self-hatred. Or maybe all these women just have permanent PMS. Or are going through menopause.

Myth 4: Cubicle employees are boring, lifeless, and have no career aspirations.

Um, I hope not. I feel like I have life aspirations. And I'm only lifeless at work because cubicles suck the life out of you (see Myth 1).



Right now, it's 3:42 p.m. I'm sitting in my cubicle, with pretty much nothing to do, since I've already completed my tasks for the day.

Here's what I hear. Coughing. The heat (mad loud...as in, when it shuts off, people freak out about it being "too quiet.") More coughing. Fingers typing on keyboards. The heat. Maybe a distant conversation. Even more coughing (Take a freaking Sudafed already, will ya?). Souls, slowly dying.

But at least I don't have to worry about anyone restricting access to the stapler:

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Webisodes: Short Story Part 25

"So, how do you know Dan Bernstein?" asked Sazz Tuttle of Ronald Harris, offhandedly, as soon as Bernstein was out of the apartment.

Harris gave her a look -- he could tell Sazz was in one of those moods where she was difficult and wanted to know everything. It pissed him off -- he had to deal with this shit from Rachel all the time of course -- but he wasn't supposed to be getting it from his girl on the side.

"Friend of a friend," grunted Harris. "Guy I went to law school with, hung out with a few times. Don't really know him too well."

It was an attempt to avoid conversation, and Sazz could tell. She thought more about Jess Smidge, and it made her want to punch him in the face. Stupid goddamn liar!

"I'm outta here," she said, jumping up and heading for the door.

"Sazz! Stay!" protested Harris half-heartedly -- this pissed Sazz off even more. He could at least pretend to be upset!

But really, she was barely thinking of Harris at all -- all she was thinking was I finally have an excuse to see Jesse! And indeed, she did.




Jesse Milkovich wasn't usually one to pick up his phone -- he was busy, and that was what voice mail was for -- but when he saw Sazz Tuttle was calling, he decided, Aw, what the hell. He had just received Sazz's text message, and knew she was probably bursting at the seams with information. If he answered now, he could successively survive a conversation, without having to do nearly any of the talking...

"Jesse!" said Sazz, as soon as he answered. Breathless, as expected. Jesse realized that Sazz had full plans to use this kidnapping "mystery" as an excuse to call him as often as possible, which kind of just made him want to be done with the whole thing.

"What's up? Are you doing anything?" she continued.

Actually, Jesse Milkovich was standing outside Freedom Square, having just spent the past 20 minutes chatting up a pretty girl interested in Tie-Rack. She was a photographer, she said, and Jesse had slipped her a card, saying they were always looking for freelancers. But to Sazz he said, "Nope, nothing. Tell me about Bernstein."

"Ohmygod, can you believe it?" screeched Sazz. "Dan Fucking Bernstein! Still selling blow. Kidnapping innocent bloggers."

"Where did you see him?" asked Jesse. "Did you talk to him?"

"No, not really," replied Sazz. She bit her lip. "He was over a friend's house. I left before I could really get any info. And my friend was kinda being a jerk about telling me how he knew him. I mean, what an asshole, right? I mean, Jess is in fucking jail, and this bozo wouldn't even tell me how he knows Dan!" Sazz was angry.

Jesse, on the other hand, was confused. "Wait, so you didn't even talk to him?" he asked. What was the point of this conversation anyway?

"No," admitted Sazz. "But I saw him! He's still in business!" She was starting to lose him...

"Uh huh," said Jesse. He paused. "Well listen, Sazz, I'm actually out in Freedom Square right now working the Tie-Rack crowd and shit...but uh, thanks for calling me! I'll let you know if I hear anything," he threw in for good measure.

"Well...ok," said Sazz, disappointed. "I'll let you know if I hear anything too."

"Cool," said Jesse. "Later."

"Bye," said Sazz, and she heard the phone click. She looked around. She was standing outside of Harris's apartment still, trying to decide where to go...

"Listen, now's really not a good time for me..."

About a week after their meeting at the Sandlot, and a full 2 weeks after their awkward drunken hook-up, Marilyn Morrissey visited Josh Stadt's apartment to chill and listen to him play some tunes. Considering they had really only started speaking less than a month ago, 2 weeks should have been adequate recovery time. But Marilyn was nothing if not constantly uncomfortable.

"You all right?" said Josh, opening the door to his tiny Kensington studio clad in a tie-dye shirt and jeans (apparently Marcus was also influencing his fashion.) "You wanna smoke?" he asked, pulling a one-hitter and medicine jar of weed out of his pocket. "My treat!"

Marilyn shook her head, then decided against it and said "Sure, hit me!" and sat down on the couch next to Stadt. He lit the end, instructed her to "pull" and as the smoke hit her lungs, she felt immediately relaxed, and cheery even.

"Let's jam!" said Marilyn, picking up a tambourine and pair of drum sticks that lay idly by, on the floor next to Josh's guitar. "Just go for it, I'll follow along," she added, and Josh took a big hit himself, then nodded, picked up the guitar, and starting strumming A minor 7.

"This is a song about Marcus," said Josh. "It's called, 'Enlighten me.'"

"Well, enlighten me!" said Marilyn, and Josh smiled, and continued strumming, and together, they made beautiful music.

"Enlighten me!"

Of course, not all attempts to cure awkwardness would go so well. Rachel Lubovitch was still reeling over her strange encounter with Thom the week before, and wondering if there was any way she could put things at ease. Normally, when things were weird with friends -- someone made a snide comment at a BBQ, or accidentally flirted with a friend's ex-boyfriend -- she was very good about following up the next day with an e-mail or phone call, apologizing for any grievances and smoothing things over.

But it had been years since she'd heard from Thom -- she doubted his e-mail address or phone number were the same -- and she was stewing about how to reach him when she had an idea -- I'll write him a letter! she thought -- addressed to the Sandlot -- and so she sat down to write:

Hey Thom! It's me again, Rachel. I'm sorry if it's weird getting a letter (so old-fashioned) but I didn't have your phone number or e-mail and I figured, hey, what the hell. Probably this will get lost in the mail, and never make it to you. But if it does...I just wanted to say I'm sorry for any awkwardness the other night. I really just stopped by because I heard you owned the bar, and wanted to see how you were doing. You look great! Your girlfriend seems like a sweetheart.

Anyway, I'm in Manhattan, at NYU law, so if you ever need legal advice, or anything of that sort, let me know! My boyfriend, Ronald Harris, is almost certified, so I'm sure he'd be willing to help you out. And it would probably be weird, but if you ever want to meet for drinks or anything...here's my email. (rachel.lubovich@gmail.com.)

Hope you're well,

R.

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Demographic Study: Stay Classy Lassie

Stay Classy Lassie is the one chick in any group of friends who refuses to drink/smoke pot/have premarital sex/sneak into college theater productions without paying, and makes it quite obvious that she feels she is BETTER that everyone else because of it. For SCL, engaging in any of these acts is a question of MORALITY, and unlike her hooligan friends (who she might compare to all the characters in The Great Gatsby), she simply wouldn't feel right acting wrong.

J. Sims -- SCL-to-be?

What makes Stay Classy Lassie different from your regular goodie-two-shoes/nerd/hardcore Christian however is that SCL is incredibly confident -- and in many cases, quite intelligent and/or good-looking too -- so that she manages to ingratiate herself into any group of drinkers/smokers/premarital sex-engagers/theater rip-er off-ers, winning them over with her sparkling personality and intelligence/good looks, only to lambaste them vocally for their debaucherous behaviors the moment their backs are turned.

Uh-huh.

For example, Stay Classy Lassie might go out with a large group of friends for a happy hour and wait until one "friend" gets sufficiently drunk. She'll then casually turn to said friend's crush and say something like, "yeah, I used to drink all the time, back in the day, but I was so sloppy and out-of-control when I did, I just had to give it up" -- while staring steadily at said "friend" with laser beams the whole time. Work Lassie will wait until the boss comes 'round the corner to exclaim, "your eyes look red. Are you high?", even if you've just explained you're getting over meningitis. SCL doesn't care if you're ACTUALLY high -- all that matters is that you could be. And she couldn't. Because she has morals.

Are you on drugs?

Of course, no one likes a moralist, and SCL probably wouldn''t have any friends at all if she didn't have some obvious and ridiculous vice of her own -- a tendency to flirt with every guy she sees; red lipstick and hooker boots; explosive fits of anger; chronically shop-lifting gum packs -- which she never, ever mentions and pretends nobody else is aware of either.

Really, SCL probably has some deep psychological issues -- maybe Daddy was an alchy, and booze freaks her out, and or she's terrified of trying pot and having a flashback to her childhood molestation -- or maybe she's just a rude, manipulative bitch. Either way, she's known for being incredibly passive-aggressive, which means the best way to stop Stay Classy Lassie in her tracks is to call her out -- she'll be so mortified by the accusation that she'll shrink away in horror and pretty much stop talking shit about you-- except for maybe in hushed voices, when no one else is in the room.

Which you couldn't care less about anyway, because you're too busy getting shit-faced.

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The Tao of Human BBQ

(originally posted at Phrequency.com. Read the story there.)


“Listen up, I need everyone to get close to the stage. As close as you possibly can. Cool!” Greg Dean pauses, wipes the sweat off his face, and surveys the afternoon crowd at West Philly’s Pilam.

“I’m Greg and this is Scott, and we are BEST FRIENDS! We play songs about optimism and smiles. This song is called ‘Love your friends.’ I want everyone to hug their friends, right now!”

The crowd, jovial and enthusiastic, whoops and hollers – and friends reach out and embrace each other like lost-lost brothers. Which in a way, they kind of are.

Welcome to Human BBQ XXXI, a 14+ hour celebration of live music, burgers, friends and dancing – a Pilam tradition since 1979.

Best Friends...best mosh pit. All photos Kate Bracaglia for Phrequency.com. Click through for more.

This year marks my 6th Human BBQ – my first, in 2004, had to be moved to West Philly’s Church of Divine Energy because the house (a seemingly typical fraternity house on 39th and Spruce) was condemned by the city. Now the house has been completely rebuilt and covered in psychedelic paint, and is open and ready for business.

Psychedelia, psycho-killer: Geoff is the business of some mean tambourine. A flying nose looks on.

By business, of course, I mean the business of putting on shows. Which is exactly what Pilam does, and precisely what makes it different from any other frat house on Penn’s campus. About 10 times a year (sometimes more frequently; sometimes less) the inhabitants of Pilam (college students, friends, artists, musicians, hardcore punk enthusiasts) book cool up-and-coming bands (like Vivian Girls, the Subjects, cauSE co-MOTION, and more) and throw cheap, DIY-shows that are open to the public.

It all culminates each year in Human BBQ – an all-day celebration of the year’s best music in a laid-back atmosphere – kind of like Woodstock for everyone involved with the house. And each year, all the Pilam “alumni” – folks who hung out there in college, or played shows back in the day – return – and rejoice.

On the roof: rejoicing!

In the house: dancing!

Outside: BBQ-ing!

This year, my friend Dave is back from Chicago; Rob’s in town from Seattle; and Mike is back from San Francisco. And of course the bands are from all over too – like Kria Brekkan, the Icelandic electronica goddess, formerly of múm, (and wife of Animal Collective’s Dave Portner) – and the Muggabears, the noisy, ethereal Brooklyn art rock trio who played Pilam last winter.

Together, it’s a beautiful amalgam of smiles, high-fives, moshing and dancing, as everyone prepares to join together and let music take over the brain. Human BBQ!!!

Kria Brekken

The Muggabears

Putting together a line-up for 14+ hours of music is never easy, and there are always tons of last minute changes and cancellations. Last year, for their XXXth BBQ, Pilam managed to book an impressive selection of uber of-the-moment groups: A Place to Bury Strangers, Oxford Collapse, Japanther, Pants Yell!, and more.

This year, the Subjects dropped at the last moment, and the bill – while stacked with awesome local talent like Make a Rising and Flag of Democracy –didn’t have quite the same pow as the previous year.

Anyone impressed? No? Just the guy in the back? Ok then.

Even Omar (that bum that loves house shows) is not impressed.

But Pilam had a trick up its sleeve. “Special Guests!” they promised, and the set list contained a mysterious group called “Les Enfants de Prague.” Who are they? The Dead f-ing Milkmen, of course, who used to play Pilam all the time back in the ‘90s, and whose rare live performance had the crowd going absolutely insane – screaming, sweating, kicking and flailing, yelling lyrics as they tried to grab hold of Rodney Anonymous and Joe Jack Talcum –exactly what you’d expect of a Dead Milkmen show.

It was an amazing set, and afterwards, the house was abuzz. “I still can’t believe the Dead Milkmen played!” said my friend Geoff, at 4 a.m. that morning. “That was f-ing insane!”

Rodney Anonymous

Joe Jack Talcum -- looking innocent

Mass chaos, some dude's foot

The rest of the bands were no joke either – from the blues-y indie pop of Metuchen, NJ’s the Roadside Graves (total boogie-down sunshine pop) to the raucous and volatile psych-punk of Brooklyn’s Notekillers.

Philly’s Flags of Democracy, who have been causing a racket since before I was even born, had the audience thrashing about to their frenetic brand of hardcore punk, and West Philly’s Make a Rising, the whimsical, freewheeling art-pop collective known for their kooky costumes and elaborate stage shows, donned Eastern-inspired tunics, head bands, boas, and bunny hats to woo the crowd with their spacey melodies.

Roadside Graves

Notekillers

Flag of Democracy

Make a Rising

House bands Brojob and Cunt Fuckula closed out the night, playing low-key shows in the TV room and basement, respectively.

Brojob: in the TV room

Cunt Fuckula

“We brought a lot of extra percussion here; we were hoping you guys could help us out,” says CF guitarist/vocalist Jeremy Saul, handing out tambourines, drum sticks, wood blocks and cowbells to audience members, as his band takes the stage at 3:45 in the morning.

The crowd –despite having partied since noon – cheers enthusiastically, singing and dancing to the band’s rollicking folk rock. After all, BBQ only comes once a year, and going to bed early is simply not an option.

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Also check out photos of the Dead Milkmen from Pak (in super high def...impressive!) or Tiffany (a pro at capturing a moment.)

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The Harlem Shakes: Better than BBQ?

So there were quite a few house-show-heads/Belle & Sebastian fans who were quite bummed to learn that THE SUBJECTS, Pilam regulars / capricious indie folk popsters were pulling out the BBQ XXXI line-up to play a show with the Harlem Shakes instead. (And a few, like my friend Pak, who said, "Fuck the Subjects. The whole teacher/student thing creeps me out anyway.)

Who are the Harlem Shakes? Who ever they are, they're certainly been getting a lot press lately. And it's easy to see why.


Riding on the coattails of other Brooklyn bands (surprise! these skinny white boys are not actually from Harlem) like said Subjects, Viv Girls, Creaky Boards (underwater faves, all of them) and more, as well as mainland NYC groups like the Walkmen, YYYs, and the Strokes, the Shakes patent a sound that's a little poppy, a little kitsch, and a whole lot garage-y.

On some tracks, they sound like the best of the Ronettes, wrapped in a blanket of saxophone and steel drums; on others, they're basement-y and low-key -- "Damn your Dad's basement feels like '98," croons singer Lexy Benaim on "Natural Man". Either way, it's pretty much awesome...

Here's a pretty boss recording of "Carpetbaggers":

I could shake it to these dudes, for sure.


UPDATE: On second thought, the Harlem Shakes show is the week after BBQ. Whatevs. My point still stands. Shake shake shake.

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Webisodes: Short Story Part 24

The next time Josh Stadt ran into Marilyn Morrissey, both were flying high on benzos. And Marilyn Morrissey could tell.

"Marilyn!" said Josh, sauntering up to her at the Sandlot.

"Josh!" said Marilyn, delighted and surprised by the welcome. "What's up?"

"Dude, I heard about your kidnapping," said Josh. "Total bummer!"

"Agreed," said Marilyn. She giggled. It was weird hearing Josh Stadt say "total bummer!"

"So, are you gonna press charges or what?" asked Josh. He smiled.

"Nah," said Marilyn, nonchalantly. "At this point, I'm ready to get over it."

"Yeah, I hear you," said Josh. "Shit can be tough." He paused. "Hey, you doing anything this week? You should come by and listen to me play some new jams I've been working on for Fraggle. Good stuff. It's Marcus I think. He's been inspiring me to write more upbeat tunes."

Marilyn smiled. "Yeah, ok," she said. "I'd like that. I got some stuff of my own I've been working on."

It was a lie, but it didn't matter.

"Alright, great!" said Josh. "It's a date!" He slapped her five, and turned around. "See you on the flipside MM!"

As he walked away, Marilyn couldn't stop grinning. Well, maybe we can be benzos addicts together, she thought.

Total bummer, dude!

Meanwhile Sazz Tuttle was trying to convince herself that her two "meaningless" relationships were just that: meaningless. Ronald Harris, she knew, was looking to get engaged to his girlfriend, and Jesse Milkovich...well. She got the feeling that the only reason Jesse agreed to see her was because she promised: no strings attached.

If only! It should come as no surprise that after fucking Jesse Milkovich, Sazz Tuttle did not feel "vindicated', like she had hoped. She felt like she wanted more.

Don't call him, don't call him, don't call him, she told herself, but then she thought, what the hell, if he gets weirded out and never wants to speak to you again it won't be any different than it was two weeks ago. What a weirdo.

A hot weirdo though. Sazz Tuttle had no self-control, and thus she dialed Jesse's digits. No answer. Did she leave a message? Eww, no, that would be weird. I know, a text message!

Sazz bit her nails as she typed, crickets 2nite. come!. Crickets was a sort of new age hipster bar in Brooklyn Heights. It was totally Jesse's vibe. She pressed "Save as draft" to save the message for later. Don't want to look desperate!

Meanwhile, across town, Jesse Milkovich was staring at his phone, noticing that Sazz had called. He sighed, annoyed (or was it intrigued?), and shoved it back into his pocket. On the one hand, he didn't want to get involved with Sazz again; he knew she was a raving lunatic; on the other hand, he wasn't seeing anything else at the moment...

Crickets: tasty with pasta

Of all the bars in the city, Reid Pinkin felt most comfortable at the Sandlot. He had spent so much time there the past couple of years, spying on people and executing shady transactions, that it pretty much felt like a second home.

So it was only natural, the evening after he told off Weinstein Pinkin, that he would retreat there. But no being a creepster, he told himself. I'm done with that shit.

Nevertheless, Reid Pinkin was a creature of habit, and walking into the bar, the first people he noticed were Marilyn Morrissey and Josh Stadt. Upon seeing Marilyn, he let out a groan, and dove for an empty booth. But his ears remained perked up.

"This here's my girl, MARILYN," said Josh Stadt to a total stranger, slapping the young Morrissey offspring on the shoulder, in a move very similar to the one Thomas Sandleby had used on Bree Dawson the night before.

"Me and her got an UNDERSTANDING!" Josh Stadt was spiraling out of control, and everyone could tell.

An understanding, thought Reid. He dropped his elbow to the table to ruminate on the UNDERSTANDING a while longer.

"Josh Stadt was spiraling out of control, and everyone could tell." Out-of-control in New Zealand. Photo by this guy.

The following Tuesday, while Rachel Lubovich was at the library studying for an exam, Sazz Tuttle was hanging out at Ronald Harris's apartment when the young lawyer placed a phone call for some coke. And who should show up but Dan Bernstein, El-Rey Pinkin's old Backlot buddy, and Smidge and Linelli's old dealer. Sazz recognized him right away. Her heart skipped a beat. Now I have a reason to call Jesse Milkovich! was the first thing she thought.

Dan gave her a funny look and her heart stopped pounding altogether for a moment as she realized that this dude was still in business while her best friend was doing a stint in the clinker. Her lower lip curled up in a snarl.

"You two know each other?" asked Ronald Harris, concerned, catching the look that passed between them.

Dan Bernstein waved it off. "Ah, we used to hang out at the same bar back in the day," he said. He nodded towards Sazz. "How are you doing?"

Sazz gave him a shit-eating grin. "Great, fancy seeing you here" she replied, and remained silent while the men stepped into the other room to transact.

You'll never guess who just walked into the room...Dan Bernstein! she texted in a message to Jesse. Send! Things were just about to get a little more complicated.

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