Pitchfork

I think I'll move to L.A. and become a professional stalker. I'll get business cards printed up, buy some nice clothes, maybe make a website. And when I see a famous person on the street that I'd like to stalk-- say, Janeane Garofalo-- I'll just walk right up to her, hand her my business card and launch into my spiel:

"Hi, I'm Nick. I'm going to be your stalker for the next few months."

Janeane looks confused. "Uh-- wha? I'm sorry?"

"Your stalker. I'm a professional stalker." I point at the business card in her hand. "I just thought you'd like to know that I'll be following you around for a while, taking your picture surreptitiously, maybe going through your garbage, leaving cryptically threatening messages on your answering machine, and perhaps occasionally FedExing you dead cats. Typical stalker stuff like that."

She examines the business card. "I... see. And you're getting paid for this? Someone's paying you to stalk me?"

"No... no, not really."

"Because professionals, you know, they get paid. That's why they're called professionals."

"Ah. Well, you see, I'm just getting started in this business, so of course I need to promote myself a bit, and to do so I figure I'd give away some, you know, free samples."

"Oh, so this is a free stalking, then?"

"Yeah. I'm trying to build word of mouth, get a good buzz going."

"So... if you're not doing this for money, then what exactly makes you different from all the other creepy losers who stalk me?" Janeane looks a little exasperated. I feel the sale is being lost.

"I'm trying to be a kinder, gentler stalker. More civil. Media-friendly. A stalker for the new millennium, if you will." I produce a pen and a piece of paper from my briefcase. "In fact, to make things easier on you, I have here a preformatted restraining order against me. All you have to do is sign here, here, here and here, and I can have this processed as early as next Wednesday."

Janeane looks nonplussed. She is not buying it. "You really don't know how to be a stalker, do you?"

"Well... as I said, I haven't been at it very long. I'm hoping to learn through experience."

"What exactly did you do before this?"

"Uh... I used to be a music critic."

"Really?"

Pause. "On the web."

"Oh."

"Yeah, things were going fine, except there was this one CD I just didn't know how to review-- The Red Krayola's Fingerpainting. Have you heard it?"

"Uh, no. I only listen to Weezer."

"Well, anyway, I spent weeks trying to figure out what to say about it, but I just couldn't do it. So I gave it up, I gave up the whole music critic thing, and became a professional stalker."

I look at Janeane. She is not smiling. "I don't really know how to say this, so I'm just going to say it. You're an idiot." She walks away.

Later on, at Pitchfork World Domination Enterprises, Pitchfork CEO Ryan Schreiber is angry. He is a fat bald man wearing an expensive business suit with suspenders. He is smoking a big fat cigar. "Look, Mirov, we took a big chance in hiring you back after you split on us like that, and what do you give us in return? This piece of shit review? Christ, man, it doesn't even talk about the album!"

I shift uneasily in my seat. My sweaty thighs squeak against the leather cushion of the chair. I am not wearing pants. "I'm sorry, Mr. Schreiber. It's just that I've been having a hard time, um, readjusting to Pitchfork life."

"I can fucking well see that." Ryan chews meaningfully on his cigar. "Let me refresh your memory about how things work around here, then. Not only do I expect all my employees to wear pants to work, I also expect them to be fucking producing quality music reviews, not this escapist fantasy swill that has nothing to do with rock 'n' roll!" he says, shaking a piece of paper in my face. He is beet-red with apoplexy and sweating profusely.

"But it really happened."

"The hell it did. And even if it did, you only became a professional stalker so you could stalk Janeane Garofalo."

"Did not."

"Did too."

"Did not."

"Did too."

"Okay, fine, maybe I did!" I yell suddenly, bolting from my chair. "But seriously, wouldn't you be just a little distraught if Janeane Garofalo dissed you to your face? Wouldn't you be disappointed in yourself if you realized you weren't cut out to be a stalker because you're just too goddamn nice?"

Ryan, taken aback a bit by my outburst, sighs deeply. "I can understand that you have a lot of issues that need dealing with, but I..."

"And it's all the fault of this album. This goddamn Red Krayola album." I start pacing around the room anxiously. "I mean, I've reviewed avant crap like this before, but not from Drag City, and certainly not from a band that's ostensibly been around for thirty-odd years and therefore should garner at least some respect!"

"Look, Mirov, I don't want to have to tell you how to do your job, but it's a fucking record review, not rocket science."

"I mean, how the hell am I supposed to be inspired to write about such a bafflingly dull album? Mind you, I've written actual real reviews of Fingerpainting, but they're all as dull as the album itself. What can you expect from 4-track recordings of Mayo Thompson singing and playing the guitar badly on purpose over silly Casio rhythms, which are then pulverized by a bunch of Drag City avant noisemakers? Would you want to read a review that reflected that sort of aimless pretension?"

Ryan rolls his eyes and presses a button on his intercom. "Julie, would you get me security? Mr. Mirov is having another one of his episodes."

"And then! And then, giving tracks titles like 'Out Of A Trombone That Is Divided Lengthways By A Partition Of Gold Sound Seven Violins Of Dynamite That Are Cut Sideways Into Thin Slices. They Are Played By The Thrown Out Ex-Members Of A Very Bad Band And Blown Up', now that's just fucking stupid. But why the hell would Drag City put their name on this? I mean, I could understand the whole U.S. Maple thing, but this? Am I missing something here?" I'm waving my arms around now, as if I'm working up the will to take flight through Ryan's fiftieth-story plate glass window.

"It'll be okay, Nick. You just need to go somewhere and relax for a while. We'll give you something easier to work on, okay? Like the new Ben Harper album, maybe?"

"You understand, right? It's about entertainment. It's about giving the reader something interesting to read. But Fingerpainting has nothing to do with entertainment. Or even art. So what am I supposed to give the reader? Something that has fuck-all to do with the Red Krayola, that's for sure! Seriously, Ryan, wouldn't you rather read about me being a big fucking loser than read about the Red Krayola? Wouldn't you rather read about me getting my heart broken by Janeane Garofalo? Wouldn't you? Isn't that entertainment?"