‚ÄúAll the world’s a stage,
And all the men and women merely players.”
— Shakespeare, ‘As You Like It’
Inscription, Shakespeare Memorial, 20th & The Parkway

After the jump, our most mysterious (and speculated upon) letter-writer finally comes clean. Totally required reading.

In every great story ever written about a masked man, there is really only one question the audience wants answers to – who’s the man behind the mask? Once that’s established, they can decide for themselves whether he’s a misunderstood hero, a ruthless villain, both or neither.
In the action leading up to that moment, usually just before or just after the hero’s death, mystery abounds. It’s grand theater. And as much as people may think they want to know who lies beneath the veil, there’s always a slight sense of disillusionment once the cat, as they say, has leapt from the bag.
Remember when Clark Kent pulled his glasses from the fire in Niagara Falls and Lois was all like, “A-ha! I got you, motherfucker.”
Next thing you know Clark’s getting his ass handed to him on a plate and Lois is left asking herself, “What ever happened to my man of steel?”
So it goes.
But it’s gotta happen. The masked man wants himself to be revealed as much as the audience does.
Why? It’s the same reason serial killers won’t quit until they’re caught, the same reason W. Mark Felt made the call to Vanity Fair, the same reason writers have bylines.
And so now, dear friend, it is time to pick this apple from the tree.
But before I do, a word about my motives and the Philadelphia writing community at large.
I’m a bit player in these parts. Some of you know who I am. Others have at least heard or seen my name. Over the past four years, I’ve managed to sneak my work into several of the major publications here. But it hasn’t been easy.
When I first moved to Philadelphia, a lot of the people who had already made a name for themselves wouldn’t so much as sneer in my direction.
I found that odd, really. I gravitated to the alt-lit crowd because I saw a lot of myself in them. It sort of sucked when people whose work I admired wouldn’t reply to my e-mails, which seemed queer, considering the bulk of them spent their formative years bitching about how close-minded jocks and jockettes were.
But it happened. I’d venture to say that over the course of my time in Philadelphia, I’ve emailed about twenty to thirty well-known alt-writers.
About four or five of them actually responded.
I know what you’re thinking: “Give me a fucking break. People like you are the reason we don’t respond. We answer you once and you start hounding us like an Amway salesman.”
This is the point where you need to get a grip.
You may hand me some BS about how busy you are, or how you don’t respond to e-mails like that on principle cause there’s a heckuva lot of yahoos out there.
And you’re right. There are. But none of them give a fuck about you (save for that nutball who sent Jessica Pressler a love poem last summer).
Responding to someone is a matter of common courtesy. I’ve never understood this ‘pithier-than-thou’ air that permeates the Philly hipster community. It’s the essence of everything you claim to rail against – arrogance, sense of entitlement, ignorance.
Yet, you stare into the abyss long enough, and eventually…
*
Writers at The Inquirer and The Daily News respond to e-mails. I’ve gotten help and advice from several of them: people like Tom Moon, Steve Lopez, Zack Stalberg. Good people, I think.
I live in Manhattan now, and guess what? All the snotty Manhattan writers I’ve contacted have gotten back to me within twenty-four hours.
No, let me correct that. Almost all of the writers I’ve contacted have responded. The only two that haven’t are a pair of ex-pats from Philly.
Weird, huh?
Which again makes me wonder, why are the Philly alt-writers so consumed with themselves?
It’s not just relegated to e-mail. I’ve introduced myself to several of these people at bars (again, not naming names, I think I’ve done enough of that). The look I get can best be summed up as who-the-fuck-are-you-to-get-between-me-and-my-PBR?
Again, you stare into the abyss long enough, and eventually…
*
Don’t get me wrong. There are some true gems out there Рpeople whose work I absolutely revere. Liz Spikol writes the gutsiest column I’ve ever read. I’ve been a big fan of Joey Sweeney’s ever since he penned a PW cover story entitled “Why Creed Sucks” (December 25, 2002). And I’m convinced the future of publishing in this city goes straight through Matt Schwartz. Dude’s brilliant.
But there’s something else that draws me to each of those people. They’re human, open to exposing others’ faults as well as their own. They’re flawed and that allows each of us to relate to them on a more personal level.
Their work is well-researched and on-target. When you read their stuff, you‚Äôre eventually drawn back to the byline, cause you know you‚Äôre in the presence of …of…well, it may not be greatness, but whatever it is, it‚Äôs incredibly unique.
And guess what? All three of those people lent me a hand at one point or another. I did my best to return the favor in kind.
Yes, I had to pester Liz Spikol via email and phone for six months before she caved, but eventually, she did. And yes, Joey Sweeney gave me a whirl simply because the whole Non D. Plume gag was compelling.
The point is all three gave me a shot. I don’t respect them because they gave me a shot. I respect them because they’re tremendous writers, and they carry themselves with considerable grace.
It’s no coincidence they’ve landed where they have.
But there’s this whole subculture of fuckoffness, this maelstrom of melodrama, perpetuated by the prima donnas of pub. It gnaws at me. It’s as if to a person, each has adopted this writing style that defines them. In the beginning, they’d say, “I’m really not like that. It’s just the way I write.”
A few years down the line it’s more like, “Do you know who the fuck I am? I write a 500 word gossip column once a week that plugs not only my friends, but also the musicians I want to bang. Who the fuck are you?”
Get over it, people.
Think I‚Äôm wrong? Think there‚Äôs no hypocrisy? Then explain to me why Jessica Pressler, who’s now involved in this big Weiner mess (yes, I just said ‚Äòbig Weiner mess‚Äô), posts a comment like this on her myspace account:
“It hurts my feelings when you guys write stuff about me. It’s not just me — it affects everyone around me. I just want everyone to leave me alone — let me graduate. It’s like I’m in college and you guys won’t let me get my degree.”
Is this a joke? Please tell me it is, cause I laugh every time I read it. And no, I don’t know Jessica Pressler personally, but J-Princess doesn’t know half the people she trashes personally. This is the same girl who mused that the Bielanko Brothers must “suck a mean cock”. It’s the same girl who wrote, “If you’re going to have sex in public, at least don’t be fat,” and “The Metro is dogshit.”
You can find all that and more in a PW column she wrote called “Starrs and Steins” or something like that.
I’m not saying it’s unfunny. I’m not even saying she’s off-base. What I have said, and will continue to say, is that you can’t spend years of your life publicly bashing other people, then make a statement like, “Pweese don’t be mean to me. I’m such a sweet wittle girl and you’re all such big, bad wolves.”
That’s the type of thing that makes peoples’ ears, eyes, and anus bleed.
Karma may not be instant, Jess, but sooner or later, it is gonna getcha. It’s just the way things are. No biggie.
You stare into the abyss long enough, and eventually…
How ’bout Steven Wells and Neil Ferguson, two PW writers from across the pond who are apparently unaware that the adverb is the enemy of the verb? These cats regularly refer to segments of their audience as twats and such, as if they‚Äôre an authority on twats and such.
Then Mr. Wells, in a very special edition of PW, wrote a truly compelling, autobiographical cover story where he used the term “Kafka” several times.
It was a good story. It was a really good story. Chilling. Only it’s difficult to sympathize with someone after they’ve called you a twat and such 80,000 times. On top of which, there’s this ongoing stench of superiority that drives me batty.
You stare into the abyss long enough, and eventually…
*
Still with me? Good. Let’s put this puppy to bed.
I could go on but I’m tired of this whole charade and I’m sure you are too.
I’m not a dick, by nature. I’m just a guy who became very disillusioned with a group of people who I looked up to at one point. That’s the shitty thing about meeting people you’ve admired from afar – they’re bound to let you down. Never fails. You’ve got this primrose idea of them in your head, and, sure as shit, they’re not gonna live up to it. And, really, why should they?
So I created the Non D. Plume character as a way of saying, “I’m mad as hell and I’m not gonna take it anymore.”
Although it wasn’t quite that dramatic, cause let’s face it, sweeping gestures that play well on the silver screen would more than likely be considered psychotic in real life (For further clarification on this point, please see Dead Poets Society, Say Anything, or Garden State).
The Non D. Plume character wasn’t psychotic by any stretch.
I once got drunk and wrote an “I’m your biggest fan” letter to a girl who lived down the street from me. Tossed it in her mail slot at 4 AM. That was psychotic.
Non D. Plume was simply a way of asking, “How d’you like it when the lense is turned upon you?”
And it was fun for a while. A few people got to laugh. The Capitol Years got a fairly decent song out of it.
I’ll admit I got carried away on occasion and took shots at people that were wholly unwarranted. Casualties of war, I s’pose. Sorry.
But that’s all I have to say about it. Maybe you loved it. Maybe you hated it. I’m guessing the lion’s share of you couldn’t care less.
In fact, I’m banking on the fact that you couldn’t care less, cause Non D. Plume is dead as dogdirt.
And as Douglas Coughlin once wrote, “Bury the dead. They stink up the place.”
I bid you adieu, dear friend.
Regards,
Bob Hill

This entry was posted on Wednesday, August 23rd, 2006 at 12:17 pm.