First off, let me say that I wish I wasn't such an asshole when I was younger. But I can't skank into the past and change it. I have to learn to accept that I was a short-sighted, emotionally stunted ingrate who's only real loyalty was to eyeliner and beer, and try not to let it happen again.
I never had a camera either in the 90's, to take pictures of my friends and my outfits. If I'd had a camera, I wouldn't have the money for film because I spent it on acid or one of the guys I played house with would've hocked it.
So when I see close proximity's of my youth I get really excited, often overwhelmed. Films like "Gummo" and "Kids", anything written by Harmony Corrine or filmed by Larry Clark stir up a mixture of nausea and nostalga, which I call, naustalgia, in me.
Along similar but more glamourous lines, is the song and video of Eminem's, "Love the Way You Lie" featuring Rhianna. Frankly IT'S JUST TOO MUCH! That old familiar theme of sick, deep co-dependency played out by Megan Fox and that sexy Hobbit-guy from "Lost", dressed in the requisite tattered denim and combat boots is so compelling, so well-done. When they beat on each other and alternately kiss/chew each other's faces, I can smell the stale beer, light b.o., sweat, cigarette smoke, sour-white-boy-aqua net- dreads and patchouli in the air; I can feel my new-wave romanticism shift into post-punk ennui slide into grunge era drug-addicted disillusionment; I am transported back to nights making out with someone else's skinhead boyfriend in bushes and basements all over Coryville.
And let us not forget our narrators, Eminem and Rhianna, cultural icons as much for their various domestic violence episodes as they are for their music. See Eminem stomping around in that field, holding up his big-boy pants and and cursing the Gods for his Ike and Tina appetites! Watch Rhianna wring her hands, with her boobs hanging out but wearing the hood of her sweatshirt up. So tortured! So tortured!
It's like a snapshot of my life in the 90's except with a hair and make-up team.
I'm not like that now and I'm grateful because it's easier to age with hope and joy and enthusiasm than it is to toil on to the end with bitterness. Dissatisfaction is great for album covers, but to be an old, bloated throw-back still trying to whore in the bars is as ugly as it gets. Unless I were to become a full-on lunatic, morbidly obese, trying to wheel myself around in a wheel chair I found in the garbage, my legs stuffed into a couple of grocery sacks, rubber dish gloves on my hands, asking strangers to push me to the dollar store. There would be no blaze of glory for me. I'm not that cool.
I live a clean life, a sober life now. It's not perfect by any stretch, but my life is rich and beautiful. But I get it, that sick shit, I get it.
I never had a camera either in the 90's, to take pictures of my friends and my outfits. If I'd had a camera, I wouldn't have the money for film because I spent it on acid or one of the guys I played house with would've hocked it.
So when I see close proximity's of my youth I get really excited, often overwhelmed. Films like "Gummo" and "Kids", anything written by Harmony Corrine or filmed by Larry Clark stir up a mixture of nausea and nostalga, which I call, naustalgia, in me.
Along similar but more glamourous lines, is the song and video of Eminem's, "Love the Way You Lie" featuring Rhianna. Frankly IT'S JUST TOO MUCH! That old familiar theme of sick, deep co-dependency played out by Megan Fox and that sexy Hobbit-guy from "Lost", dressed in the requisite tattered denim and combat boots is so compelling, so well-done. When they beat on each other and alternately kiss/chew each other's faces, I can smell the stale beer, light b.o., sweat, cigarette smoke, sour-white-boy-aqua net- dreads and patchouli in the air; I can feel my new-wave romanticism shift into post-punk ennui slide into grunge era drug-addicted disillusionment; I am transported back to nights making out with someone else's skinhead boyfriend in bushes and basements all over Coryville.
And let us not forget our narrators, Eminem and Rhianna, cultural icons as much for their various domestic violence episodes as they are for their music. See Eminem stomping around in that field, holding up his big-boy pants and and cursing the Gods for his Ike and Tina appetites! Watch Rhianna wring her hands, with her boobs hanging out but wearing the hood of her sweatshirt up. So tortured! So tortured!
It's like a snapshot of my life in the 90's except with a hair and make-up team.
I'm not like that now and I'm grateful because it's easier to age with hope and joy and enthusiasm than it is to toil on to the end with bitterness. Dissatisfaction is great for album covers, but to be an old, bloated throw-back still trying to whore in the bars is as ugly as it gets. Unless I were to become a full-on lunatic, morbidly obese, trying to wheel myself around in a wheel chair I found in the garbage, my legs stuffed into a couple of grocery sacks, rubber dish gloves on my hands, asking strangers to push me to the dollar store. There would be no blaze of glory for me. I'm not that cool.
I live a clean life, a sober life now. It's not perfect by any stretch, but my life is rich and beautiful. But I get it, that sick shit, I get it.
5 comments:
Cool Laura
i love you so much! i love your voice, your guidance, your support, and our friendship. i truly value you and always will laura!
This, a fantastic post. "naustalgia" alone is sheer brilliance couched in evocative, well-crafted prose.
Well did!
First-Rate, Laura Hugg!
right there with you, Laura.
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