WORST MONDAYS: with Jessica Hopper
At JUICEBOX HQ, we’ve never really had a case of the Mondays because we don’t have real-people jobs. But for those feeling a bit garfield this A.M., feel free to wallow in other people’s most hated things. Every Monday!
Jessica Hopper writes good stuff about punk rock. And other kinds of music. And things that aren’t music, like feminism and bed-wetting. She’s really good at what she does. We kind of wish we were that good at what we do. But hey. You need goals, right?
Hopper’s been cutting and pasting zines since she was a teen, but it was Hit It or Quit It, a collectively-compiled collection of music, culture, and general zine-y writing, that launched her into the upper-echelon of zine-people. Her work has since appeared in bucket-ton of places, from the Chicago Tribune to Stop Smiling to SPIN to her own popular blog, Tiny Lucky Genius. Her long-running column in the recently(ish) defunct Punk Planet yielded one of the magazine’s most infamous pieces, “Emo: Where the Girls Aren’t“, a controversial, smart, really, really relevant examination of the inherent misogyny of everyone’s favourite “genre/plague”, as Hopper describes things.
Currently hard at work editing a book for young girls about how to start to a band and be awesome, Hopper’s getting ready to help educate a whole new wave of smart, forward-thinking punks. She took some time away from this noble pursuit to tell us about buying rugs on eBay.
I have been self-employed/freelance since I was 19 and the last job I had was the worst. I was a cocktail waitress at this restaurant/club in Hollywood that did a lot of corpo music biz and movie wrap parties. The tacit agreement was that sure for the $300-a-night pay you were not to bitch and smile big despite that B-list actors and gross A&R dudes were petting you like a Labrodoodle.
Senior year of high school, I shaved my head. I looked like a Mon Chi-Chi.
I would say nu-neon-hippy, but you can’t really call something sub when it’s Urban Outfitters dominant paradigm.
The ones where I didn’t realize it was a date until I was on it.
Rugs off eBay. One arrived encrusted with a kilo of sand.
Worst way to die
I’ve spent a lot of time at hospitals and nursing homes this year and I think those are as brutal as any other way to go, in a sterile environment, hooked to machines, filled with super-medicines, attended to rotating shifts of strangers trying to keep you from dying. It’s just grim.