Forgive the Gross Language

It's a direct quote

I was reminded today of a conversation I had back in Tacoma with a girl I worked with. It was a slow shift which meant she was going next door to the Tex-Mex place to get free shots from the bartender over there. I would've pumped her full of Cape Codders because I was nice to the wait staff, but the thrill of sneaking booze from the bar where you work isn't as great for some people as the thrill of sneaking out of the bar where you work to the bar next door to sneak booze.

After she took several trips and there was still no one in the restaurant, we started jibbajab about some banal topic straight opposite sexers get into when there isn't a lot going on romantically or otherwise between them. We probably talked about a show her cousin's band was playing that weekend and said some music preferences when a propos very little, she broke out with a line:

"Do you want me to suck your dick?"

It was known at my place of work that I hadn't been getting a lot of lady action, basically because I was honest about it when asked, so maybe this was a charitable suggestion, I couldn't tell, but whatever the case, it appeared by all rights an honest one.

I was too taken aback to utter an affirmative to this prop mainly because we had just been talking about the Misfits a little bit ago. This despite that in my imagination the beej had already taken place more than once. I'm sort of ashamed to admit this but not really too much.

The girl had done her best in her young life to destroy a body that to spite her had remained well put together. She had tattoos on her neck and wrists and wore big sunglasses like Marilyn Manson during the Mechanical Animals era. Nice by most accounts, she showed a self-absorb sitch in her efforts to get other waitresses to leave so she could make more money on busy nights or to get herself to leave on slow nights. Even if her proposal had been merely to pass the time, as her track record with the bars' patrons might have indicated, she still meant what she'd said, as much as was possible.

I admire honesty in people and vulnerability in women, and the forthrightness of this betrayed both. I'd nurtured feelings for this girl in spite of myself since I started working at the bar and this brash move only reinforced the thing.

But I couldn't act. Not for prudishness, but because that abrupt revelation of sexual appetite and peek at what might look to most as psychological dysfunction made me rare back.

I don't regret that I couldn't do a De Niro in Jackie Brown, but I'm seeing now that this kind of push-pull sexual dance may contain enough breakthroughs into gross overtures that I'll need much more toughening up before I can offer simple acquiescence.

There might also be moral obligations lurking somewhere in these occasions, I don't know.

The Decline

I don't know a lot of people who at one point read The Onion's "A.V. Club" section with the same fervor I did from 1997 to 1998 (before the avclub.com url, clicking past The Onion's main page to get at the archives and look at what Henry Rollins had to say in his first interview), but I assume that those people are nonetheless out there.

The law diminishing marginal utility vis a vis A.V. reading didn't seem to apply during that time (q.e.d.: 2nd-half 1997 RS covers featured The Prodigy's Keith Flint, RZA and Zach de la Rocha and Puff Daddy; 1st-half 1998 of same featured Fiona Apple and Mariah Carey). Around 1997 to 1998, there was, post-grunge, a new and emphatic divide between "mainstream" and "indie," as the terms applied back then.

It was during these two years that the information barrier that kept obscure artists obscure began to disappear. Napster was on its way to the middle-land. At that stage in the game, the A.V. Club was perfect; anyone interested in finding out what was going on in the then-extant underground had only to read a feature interview in A.V. then leave their family computer on all night, hoping at least one of the low-ping downloads would be sitting on the desktop in the morning. Ani Difranco was on the cover of SPIN magazine in 1998. White critics were still pretty brave to write about rap music. White kids were still not sure whether to feel guilty about liking what rappers had to say about women.

The A.V. continued to yield this kind of enjoyment until around 2004, when blogs and Pitchfork hit it big. Suddenly it was very easy for obscure musicians to rocket from obscurity to relative obscurity.

Now, as has been repeatedly and emphatically pointed out, the gap between "indie" and "mainstream" has been obliterated, as "indie" has become less a descriptor of music and more a derogatory name for people with an irritating sense of fashion.

No publication, I think, is a greater casualty of the bridged indie chasm than the A.V. Club.

There are other considerations. The Onion moved from Madison, Wisc., to New York, N.Y. September 11 happened and the 'ion couldn't really handle it, pussing out the day of (I never understood the laudatory comments indicating the editors showed good taste by holding off until the following Tuesday, thereby creating a safe distance and editing out snide comments at a time when snide comments were especially needed), Pitchfork and Gawker rose up. Likely all these events co-conspired to kill the main things that made A.V. special, but the biggest change was one that extended beyond the newsroom and into a unified pop landscape whose towering mountains and obscure valleys became increasingly flattened.

Rock N Roll Friends

Check each other's books back in.