Photo by Veronique de Turenne

Chicken Corner is sad to announce that the identity of the "No Joy" hipster has been revealed. The life force behind those now infamous words "There is no joy in this hipster hell" -- sprayed onto the sidewalk near the Little Joy bar -- was bound to have a human, or dog, face, and this one turns out to be black and furry.

Maisie says she is sorry for what she did, but it is too late to take the words back because she lacks the requisite acids that would scour the paint off the sidewalk.

And what, I asked, happened that night, about a month ago, to make her write such a thing in white spray paint, on public property? Well...Maisie took a deep sigh, and told me what she said was the short version:

It started that morning. Everything was liver snacks until her cherished yellow ball went over a cliff in her native Malibu. That ball... [She couldn't go on with this part of the story and excused herself for a moment. I thought I heard a yelp over the phone line. Then she returned.] Her ball was gone. She needed a change of scene. The exquisite sight of the sun-sparkled water and beach and the bluffs that had taken her ball were too awful to bear. She decided to go to Echo Park, because she had heard that it was dirty and that it was a place with artists, inspired people. Losses such as hers require inspiration. [Deep sigh] Later that night, she finds herself at the Little Joy, and it first it was just what the veterinarian ordered: Lots of energy and appetite. Good music, cheap dog biscuits and beer. She is laughing and telling the story of the little yellow ball, the way it rolled so fast, receding. The hipsters in the bar were all attention. But then she made the mistake. She mentioned that she had lost the ball in Malibu. Where she lived. She saw eyes start to glaze over. She thought she heard somone snicker something about a Scottish cashmere dog bed, gold dog bowls and Dog-People Magazine. Then it comes out that she is unaffiliated with any gallery. Then she has never heard of the Entrance band. You'd think she was covered in fleas the way they started to inch away, the way the space around her suddenly turned into the no-go zone in the center of the bar. The pool balls were making an awful racket; they sounded hard, like they would break your teeth if you let them. And the hipster who just a few minutes earlier had been howling along with her to "I Go Out Walking After Midnight," his beard was full of biscuit crumbs -- she remembered how he had snapped away one of her biscuits earlier -- and now there was a mad dog gleam in his eye that made her glad she had lost her beautiful little yellow ball on the cliff, surrounded by lupines and sea grasses, glad she had not brought it here to be spit on my the likes of... She was glad she had not lost her ball in hell.

"And the rest of the story," she said, "is written on the sidewalk. And I'm sorry. I was so deep in my own grief I never thought I might make some poor little mutt sad with my words. If I bummed anyone out, or made them feel I resented the pleasure they found, in the place where I found no friends, made to feel my fleas were fatter than anyone else's..." She seemed to forget the rest of the thought. "You know?" she said brightly. "They say I am a good dog. And today, I am going on a walk. And I have a new ball. A green one."

I was about to tell Maisie how I admired her courage in coming forward with her story, but all I heard at the other end of the line was a screen door slapping shut, the sound of big paws trotting away. A brand new start for a brand new day. Peace out, Maisie!