Skip to content


Emdash isn’t sure why she bothers holding the Not Good Enough for Qwerty meetings anymore. There was an underdog spirit at first–ra ra Unicode, proper typography is the key to etcetera–but now it’s a monthly bitch session and Interrobang hits on everybody.

“Autoconversion is an insult,” says Ellipsis for the third time. “Implying that I’m merely the sum of three full-stops–”

“We should make a resolution of censure!” says Curly.

“Motion noted,” sighs Emdash. “Those for?”

“You’ll never believe what she let me do after we got drunk at Poor Richard’s,” whispers Interrobang loudly.

Emdash, indeed, would not.


Is it actually that everybody in indie record stores is high? wonders Marie. Or is it an attitude they cultivate? Dropped eyes, slow moves, effortless cruelty to the less-enlightened: no, it can’t just be drugs, she thinks while Costello and Bacharach clatter on the counter. Stoners tend to be nicer.

“Need to fix the vinyl,” says Curly in monotone, swiping a laser. “Rilo Kiley.”

“That’s the actual band, right?” asks Moe.

“Yeah,” says Shep, barely not yawning. “It shouldn’t have a comma in it. Just so you know.”

Score one for the long-hair, thinks Marie, trying hard to hide a smile.