Just as I’m feeling sorry for myself because I don’t do enough with my life, along comes Michelle Morgan Cross to make me feel worse. She is God. She writes (Adversaria, Crosspatch, short stories, a novel). She makes music (bands include the Diviner Imposter and the Mimic Kickers). She makes movies (such as “Mortal Combat for Girls” which was almost banned because of its off-screen nipple twisting). She is seventeen years old! When does she sleep? She complains she can’t get a part-time job and I hope she never does. How could she maintain her prolific output of arguments, essays, and meditations on subjects like quiot vs riot girls, punk poseurship and sexuality. I’m overwhelmed by her prodigious creative energy. I’m annoyed by her appropriation of Jenny Skidmore’s diary and Mark Luchkow’s personal correspondence (but in Michelle’s world all diaries are up for grabs). I’m amazed at her tales of writer retreats and mascot adventures (with cops in tow). I’m bored by her long-winded arguments and histories of zining and underground politics. I told my roommate about Michelle and she said, “Remember her name.” We’re going to be hearing from Michelle Morgan Cross and I don’t mean a postcard. She’s my new hero. She hasn’t lifted me out of my slump but she’s given me a reason to try harder. Now if only I were seventeen again. (TD)
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