...that the new Grizzly Bear album sucks, because then they might become hipster outcasts, Howard-Hughes-esque hermits, and after a castastrophic-run of radical outbursts in public, resurface with redeeming qualities amid social unpopularity and become completely socio-musicially invisible, and then, only then, could we possibly meet in comfortable circumstances in which to foster normal-person friendships. All fun four collectible indie-boy wet dreams would move into modest housing on my street--into one of those architectural optical illusions like The Beatles' pad in Help! in which each mop-top has their own entrance to what looks like four different apartments but is actually one large animal house--we'd run into each other and have spontaneous conversations about tomato plants and homemade chai. One day I'd stumble down the road with groceries in one arm and textbooks in the other and Chris Taylor would be watering the strawberries that he'd planted the week before, smile gently and ask me, "hey, I've been working on this melody, may I have your opinion?"
A girl can dream, right?
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