I was an insufferable indie snob bitd, and currently assess myself at about 35% indie snob, 50% dork, and 15% pretentious parentally-funded "novelist" who gets to sit in the coffee shop all afternoon swilling Ghiradelli ho-chos while real people go to their real jobs.
I've always been a two-art girl, and while one art has always been writing, the other was the three-chord whinings of white kids from Washington up until about five years ago, then it turned into improv comedy, the one art-form that I unabashedly excel at. And I know my improv pals read this and perhaps might not agree with that statement, but if I'm going to spend every goddamn weekend of my life making up songs in front of paying audiences, then shouldn't I believe that I'm good at at it?
In 1998, my senior year at the ladycollege, Elliott Smith, late chanteur of wistful heartwrenchers, was nominated for an Oscar for his work in Good Will Hunting (I've been meaning to ask T-square lately if she finally, after nine freaking years of nay-saying, got around to watching GWH, a movie she refused to view back in the day, citing a previous commitment to staying home and scowling while everyone else kicked it to the Hampshire Mall to see this tour-de-force mo-fo classic). This historic event PISSED 22-yr-old me like hell. How dare our darling sad guitar boy be co-opted by the mainstream! And seeing as I would rather autopsy a corpse or repair a busted stapler than sit through a cheesed-up self-congratulatory fuckfest like the Academy Awards, I subbed for no less than six continuous hours of OZQ programming that nobody but me and my pals at the Hampshire County Jail were listening to. Therefore, I missed Elliott's white-suited national performance and his subsequent controversial hugging of Celine Dion, who walked away with the award our boy had been nominated for.
So while I was engaged in my bi-weekly on-air jerk-off fest with Teenbeat's back catalog, every ho at Smith was parked in front of the tube getting a heaping helping of Elliott. It was actually quite easy to get me to sub a radio show back in those days. One of the reasons I had about ten friends the whole four years is that my favorite thing to do was to spin records in a room by myself, which is not an activity that fosters togetherness.
I guess my point here is that, because I was such a severe indie snob, I missed a great moment in indie history in the act of indie snobbery.
I guess.
I have no point. I'm just jerking off to my own back catalog.