Rainy Sunday marathon
No Facebook. In fact, no mention of internet at all (which, if they had it, was surely AOL dial-up). No cell phones and not even multiple land lines. Only beepers and subway tokens (ha, tokens) and a young Eddie Vedder with a terrible band name (Reigndance?), and a Mazzy Star/Suzanne Vega siren, stylistically and emotionally preserved somewhere between Parker Posey in Party Girl and Winona Ryder in Reality Bites, and a lady rapper befriending a gal from Alabama, the latter an obvious product of neighborhood dance competitions in chain-hotel ballrooms (cut to the spandex short-and-bra set), and a smart, hyper-defensive poet, a bisexual artist, some lava lamps and chiseled abs and a frat-boy haircut, a respectful exchange with a homeless drug addict, earnest discussion and, believe it or not, authenticity.
Thanks MTV. Thanks Hulu.