That Was The Week That Was: Jessica Pressler
Well, we think it’s pretty fair to say that Jessica Pressler has weathered more hatin’ and fussin’ than any other Philadelphian this week, save for maybe Susanna Goihman, and she actually killed somebody. Allegedly. Anyway, since Pressler’s now-infamous NYT piece last Sunday has given the Philly hate-osphere so much this week, we figured we’d give Pressler a ring as she convalesces in New England at her childhood home and see how she’s holding up. What follows is an exclusive interview with J-Press.
After the jump.
Well, I’ll tell you what, Miss Thing: You sure picked a good week to be out of town. I bet your ears were ringing! One thing that seemed to fascinate me personally was how much people seemed to not be able to separate you/your Times piece from the detestable idea of the “sixth borough” itself. Which, for the record, you did not invent. Did you anticipate the shitstorm?
The sixth borough concept was a good way to introduce New Yorkers to whatís been happening in Philly. Itís kind of like when you give a dog a pill–you wrap it in something you know they like, such as cheese. New Yorkers understand the boroughs; they can work with that reference. They also understand said reference is tongue-in-cheek, because DUH, Philadelphia is obviously not a borough, itís a CITY.
And if you are a Philadelphian, if you actually read the story, youíll see that itís a fucking love letter to the city in a widely read section of a national newspaper, and you should thusly view the ìsixth boroughî thing as like Ö the envelope. (God, what is up with me and the crappy metaphors?) I know to us, Philadelphia is the center of the world, but to much of the rest of the country, itís this gritty, hard-bitten city place where bad shit happens, and its maybe near Ohio. And apparently, people who live here are supposed to like that. Weíre supposed to do our part to keep sure everyone thinks its mediocre, so that we can congratulate ourselves for being edgy and authentic. Iím thinking in particular of these totally adolescent emails Iíve been getting that say, ìIf you really care about Philly, you should have just left it alone.î Fuck that. Itís good that Philadelphiaís changing, that itís a place they want to live, that people are coming here and making lives for themselves. The city needs to change, it needs to grow. And that doesnít mean that it will cease to be itself, or lose its identity. I donít know why people be wanting to keep a brother down—wait, what was the question?
Does your mom let you get drunk/weeded at her house?
No, but the Presslers are a Naked Family.
Ok. Perry Milou. What the fuck?
Perry Milou is a fascinating example of one of Philadelphiaís indigenous species, the avid self-promoter with nothing worth promoting. That said, I do enjoy him, and his poetry, just so terribly terribly much, and it confuses and saddens me that heís so angry with me forÖ. what? I have no idea. Either itís a delayed reaction to something I wrote months ago, or heís pissed off about the SteinStalker items. People can be so humorless about their grizzled, lurching, spray-tanned dads.
Not a lot of people know this, but for the last few months, you, Moe Tkacik from PhillyMag and Doree Shafrir from the Weekly have all been living in the SAME HOUSE. (You have no idea the steamy scenarios that Harry Cook keeps putting in my mind.) Personally, I find this mind-boggling and frankly, it’s shocking that nobody pitched it as a reality show to CN8. What’s it like being a media compound with completely synchronized deadlines AND periods?
Well, it would be a very boring show, just three girls typing on three identical white laptops and muttering in a strange dialect, with an occasional cameo appearances by interchangeable nebbishy boyfriends.
You’ve taken a lot of shit this week. What are you gonna do to blow off all that steam?
I guess what Doree, Moe and I usually do when itís been a long, hot, sweaty day: Take off our clothes and jump up and down on our beds, pillow fighting. Alternately, I may just sit around, reflecting on how I am right, and everyone else is so, so wrong.
Thank you, Miss Pressler. Enjoy your vacay, hon.
