The charms and delights of Pretty in Pink

I absolutely and sincerely love John Hughes' Pretty in Pink. It does have some strikes against it, I freely admit - it's dated at this point (and it feels like it), the dialogue is often clunky, the whole "rich boy with girl from the wrong side of the tracks" conceit is both cliche and often mishandled, it has some deeply cheesy moments, and the prom dress Molly Ringwald's Andie fashions for herself is quite possibly the most heinous garment ever committed to film. Seriously:



It's so terrible. I have seen this movie quite a few times, and I honestly can't figure out how she even got the damned thing on. I think the filmmakers must have had to sew poor Molly Ringwald into it. It's choker-tight around her neck and sack-like everywhere else. This thing hurts my feelings, it's so ugly.

Even with all that, though, this movie is truly affecting and wonderful. Part of it is because John Hughes is just a damned genius when it comes to teen films - he's so good at getting the right ambience, at mining tender and poignant moments out of hackneyed situations and pulling terrific performances out of his young actors. This is particularly true for James Spader, who I adore - only three years after Pretty in Pink, he would star in the classic indie film sex, lies and videotape - who is a brilliant, sleazy presence, swanning around the school in sock-free loafers and linen leisure suits. It's obvious that he's a star in the making. Molly Ringwald is excellent as always, with an occasionally petulant good-girl vulnerability that makes her a thrill to watch. Jon Cryer is a joy to watch as the quirky, lovelorn Duckie, who sets the goddamn screen on fire when he does a dance to - of all the songs - Otis Redding's "Try a Little Tenderness." (Seriously.) Even Andrew McCarthy, who grew on me upon repeat viewings, is easy to dismiss as a bland pretty boy (his character's name is Blane, which Duckie hilariously dismisses as a "household appliance), but there's something quietly wonderful about him, too. His indecisive, weak-willed character is perfectly suited to him (something of a backhanded compliment, I know), and he has this meek, slightly pained smile that he affects, and it's stunningly effective. He isn't the most dynamic performer, and it's probable that he just lucked into the role, but I actually think he's kind of perfect in it.

As with so many great teen films, it has a lot of style, from the stellar new wave soundtrack to the thrifty, of-the-moment clothing. I know I came down hard on that prom dress, but I love Duckie's prom outfit almost as much as I loathe that dress: a blue smoking jacket, black pants, a bolo tie, and white loafers. I would have loved to have had a prom date who was outfitted in such a way. Duckie, you did prom right. His style is pretty killer in the whole movie, actually - flamboyant and offbeat but also surprisingly current. He pretty much looks like a modern hipster, in a lot of ways.



It's Duckie, and his lovelorn aching for Andie, that makes the film. I may have mentioned this before on this blog (I certainly intended to, at any rate), but I love the decision not to have them end up together. I love that the fact that he wants her the most, and deserves her, doesn't mean she'll love him back - or even that they'll be right for each other. A lesser film would have had him "earn" her, but that isn't the point. That isn't how these decisions are made. It makes the conclusion infinitely more effective, having him let go of that particular dream in favor of new ones. R.I.P. John Hughes, you brilliant devil.

I don't know if I've mentioned this before here, but for a couple of years now, I've decided that I want my first-dance song at my wedding, should I ever choose to get married, to be "Fade Into You" by Mazzy Star. It's a really beautiful, dreamy, lush, gently orchestral song with a softly lilting rhythm that is just perfectly romantic without being saccharine. There is, of course, only one person I've ever actually fantasized about marrying (and only one person with whom I've ever actually seen any real point to marriage. I never understood why people even really bother until I met him.)

I try not to get overly sentimental. It's so easy to slip from being emotional into being maudlin.

But I'd rather be at the mercy of my emotions than be dead inside. My therapist that I saw while I was home wants me to get a tattoo and drink and have sex and wear leather pants and be a little bit reckless and young and feel strong. I would rather be a mess than feel nothing. And I've felt so little over the past few years, other than a quietly deadened loneliness. I so rarely get really sad or happy or angry. All I feel is my weak, sick, painful body.

That's not who I want to be, anymore.

I used to go to a lot of concerts. They're one of the real highlights, actually, of my middle school and high school life. Music was a big part of what kept me going. When I had super long thick hair I gave myself whiplash from thrashing around in my room. To Nirvana, usually. In early high school I was in love with someone who loved Nine Inch Nails, so I started listening to them, too. For weeks at a time I would wake up to "Head Like a Hole" playing from my CD player. (Pretty Hate Machine was my favorite NiN album. It still is. I find that there's a playful and irreverent spirit to it that was just lost later on.) I painted my fingernails black over crimson nail polish and wore combat boots. I didn't sleep much. I dreamed a lot. I was skinny and nervous and too pale. I cried a lot and sometimes forgot to eat. I hissed and sneered and sometimes walked arm-in-arm with the boy I loved down the hallways and felt so happy that it hurt, because I know how fleeting that intensity was. I loved him painfully, unimaginably, with an almost physical force. I wrote all the time.

And I was oh, so far from happy. But that girl is gone. I'm afraid that I'll never be that bold, that intense, that vital ever again.

Being back at school isn't so bad. It's hardest on the weekends. My classes are great and exciting and stimulating and they keep me going through the week. The weekends are the tough part. They always have been. I dig deep and find little more than emptiness.

Leather pants are a start. Tattoos maybe, body piercings. Modeling myself, slightly at least, in this regard, after the pure raging id that is Faith from Buffy, played by the ravishing Eliza Dushku.



Obviously, crossbows come later. But a little more id in my life is not a bad idea.

Scattered thoughts.

So "Rocket Queen" by G n' R came up on my iTunes shuffle (I should be writing a paper, but isn't that sure and always the case?), and remembered this delightful little peace of lore about that girl moaning throughout certain parts of the track. Allegedly, one of the members of the band (I don't remember which at the moment), slept with Axl Rose's girlfriend and Axl, having what is surely a highly overdeveloped sense of revenge, decided to sleep with said fellow band member's girlfriend, tape it, and put her orgasming moans on the song.

That is just such an epic level of out-assholing that it reminds me of that episode of South Park in which Cartman gets back at some kid after a prank by arranging for his parents to be killed, making them into chili, and serving it to the kid. Some serious, House of Atreus, Greek vengeance-type shit. No real point to this, just that I love Axl Rose and I love South Park.

Really love South Park - I watch it a lot late at night while hanging out with the cats. A couple of weeks ago I caught an episode that referenced Fiona Apple. It involves Barbra Streisand as an evil monster, going around town indignant that no one seems to know who she is, to which the police officer responds: "Well, I know you're not Fiona Apple, and if you're not Fiona Apple, I don't really give a rat's ass." Bliss.

Hey, you know what else I've gotten kinda hooked on lately? Six Feet Under. It took me a couple of episodes to warm up to it, but I'm starting to like it a lot. Its combination of dark humor and morbidity is right up my alley, and the cast is really good (with the exception of Rachel Griffiths - can't stand her, and in fact she comes close to ruining the show for me), especially Michael C. Hall. I was in love the moment he appeared on screen, so of course a few minutes later it was revealed that his character is gay. Yes, so it goes.

There's something so odd and chilling about him, like he has the "leading man" looks but not quite, which is what makes him uncanny. Love him a lot. I've been meaning to watch him on Dexter, too, but I'm occupied with Six Feet Under and Ally McBeal at the moment. So much kickass TV to discover, you guys!

(I've also been meaning to get into True Blood. Kinky sex + vampires + violence + Southern Gothic vibe = party, as far as I'm concerned.)

Well, I should get back to work. At least my next few papers will be full of fluff and popular culture (but from an academic perspective, y'all!) Party time for me, for real.

This is basically "Why Cassie shouldn't listen to the Counting Crows when already in a melancholy mood."

"A Murder of One," to be specific. Beautiful song. One of my favorites, ever. And depressing as all hell.

I was thinking about things that cannot be forced, partially in connection with my own creativity. I used to write all the time. I started writing stories when I was four and could not yet even physically write, but dictated stories to my mom. From the ages of, I don't know, four until about eighteen I have notebooks upon notebooks upon notebooks filled with stories, attempted novels, poems, songs, even an aborted screenplay. And of course the vast majority of it looks obviously like it was written by a child/teenager/young adult, there's definitely some profound stuff in there and I truly don't know where that creativity went. All of those urges. I thought that once I was in college, with my creativity and intellect nourished, it would flourish more than ever, but instead it's gone downhill.

I was also inevitably thinking about love, in terms of things that can't be forced. You can wish all you like. You can manipulate, cajole, trap, seduce, rape, intimidate, demand, cripple and brainwash, you can kill someone with kindness and be selfless or appallingly selfish and in the end it will not matter, because all the yearning in the world simply will not make someone love you. It's something that can only be willingly given.

I've been in love with the same person for so long that I start to wonder sometimes if it's even him I'm still holding on to, or just the idea itself of the love. If it's just stubbornness and an unwillingness to let go of something that I've wanted for so long. I haven't seen him in so long now and there are no new memories to make. Nothing new to go over. And it'll seem like more of a longing for the past than a longing for him.

And then I'll get a sudden flash of a memory, something so sharp and potent that I can actually almost feel him next to me and I'm left gasping and reeling from it, suddenly missing him so much it's like a physical ache in my chest.

I didn't grow up dreaming of getting married. I never envisioned myself in a wedding dress, even as a little girl. I dreamed of true love, but getting married was never something I particularly cared about. I never even really understood the point of getting married. It never even seemed necessary until I met him. And then I understood why people do it. Because I wanted so much to stand up in front of all the people I cared about and profess my love, and tell the world that he was mine and I was his, and - it just all clicked into place for me then.

He's long gone and I don't know what to do with all this. I've often frightened myself a little with how deeply and quickly I fall in love. I can imagine myself with someone else, but I can't imagine how I could ever let this one go. I'm not even sure that I want to.

I miss him every day.

There was a friend I had for many years. Self-destructive, angry, careless. He treated me badly and I treated him with a ridiculous amount of kindness. And he's been through so much in the last couple of years, and I've been wondering lately if I even still care about him all that much - and even if I ever really did, or if it became about stubbornness once again. Like if I admitted that he just wasn't worth it, that there wasn't much in my heart for him anymore, it would void all the time I spent trying to help him, all the tears I shed when I didn't even know if he would live out the week.

I don't know how to answer that question, and I worry that it was just stubbornness. Because I don't know what that says about me - that I would hold on to something for so long, not to mention giving that person hope that I cared more than I really did, simply because I was unable to admit to myself that I was wrong, that my affection was misplaced.

I don't know. Things are really strange right now and I really don't know how to answer these questions. And I'm afraid of what I might see in myself if I do.

Serve the Servants

Because I just came to this one in my listening and it's my absolute all-time favorite Nirvana song. Sigh.

Teenage angst has paid off well
Now I'm bored and old
Self-appointed judges judge
More than they have sold

If she floats than she is not
A Witch what we have thought
A downpayment on another
One at Salem's lot

Serve the Servants - oh no
Serve the Servants - oh no
Serve the Servants - oh no
Serve the Servants
That legendary divorce is such a bore

As my bones grew they did hurt
They hurt really bad
I tried hard to have a father
But instead I had a dad

I just want you to know that I
Don't hate you anymore
There is nothing I could say
That I haven't thought before

Serve the Servants - oh no
Serve the Servants - oh no
Serve the Servants - oh no
Serve the Servants
That legendary divorce is such a bore

This blog really needs a "Nirvana" and/or "Kurt Cobain" tag at this point, don't you think?

I have recently been informed that I overuse parentheses and hyphens in my writing, not that this is news to me, particularly. I wonder if it's because I like to imagine myself giving an elaborate speech with a mildly ironic tone as I write.

Dear God.

It's cooled down outside, for which I am supremely grateful. By the time it gets really hot again I'll be home, and I have central air at home. Another thing for which I am supremely grateful.

I have one more class left of my sophomore year of college - Modern American Writing, which I have tomorrow morning. And then I'll be left - with my two papers, my take-home final, and my three regular finals. Which is flipping ridiculous, especially seeing as I'm only taking four classes. Why, why, why do so many professors find it totally acceptable to assign a long-ass paper due and then think it totally acceptable to expect you to take a final the following day? It ought to be a final paper OR a final exam (or some combination thereof, in the case of the take-home final.) Not both. No. Not at all.

At which point, I'll be halfway done with college. (Assuming, of course, that I pass all my classes - not that I'm really concerned with that.)

I had my final History of Rock class today (snff) and it just brought me back around to Nirvana again. Things I thought I had grown out of. Angers and passions that I thought I had moved on from. But we were watching the "Smells Like Teen Spirit" video and all of a sudden I was fourteen again, watching those cheerleaders with the anarchy signs emblazoned on their uniforms, my blood boiling and heart pounding, and Kurt Cobain was this blond, scrawny, bratty, utterly ingenious form of Second Coming. An annoyed, smirking, reluctant superstar, tragic in his hilarity.

I thought I'd grown out of all that, but there are still these moments - and apparently today was one of them - where I'm back there again, back again in a place where I was discovering grunge and where Soundgarden and Hole and Pearl Jam and Nirvana - especially, especially Nirvana - were my new saviors. Only I was discovering it a good thirteen years or so after everybody else, and so it was already over - and I was clinging to something that was long gone. I knew how the story would end.

When I was about twelve or so, I asked my mother what grunge was. She cocked her head and thought about it, and after a moment she responded, "It's something like...listless punk." I nodded, further intrigued about this phenomenon.

She has absolutely no memory of this exchange, and is still rather in awe that she produced such an evocative and fairly accurate (not 100%, but still pretty spot-on) definition. It's worth noting that my mother is a few months younger than Kurt Cobain.

So I'm listening to my whole collection of Nirvana - which is not nearly as comprehensive as I would like, or as lengthy as my obsession with the band and the lore of the period would suggest - just the three studio albums and a couple of B-sides and live tracks. But I'm listening to it all, in chronological order, and, well, it's still great. And it turns out the Kurt's ghost is still kind of around for me.

Go figure.

I'm hotsick and so this is what I'm putting here.

My friend assures me, "It's all or nothing."
I am not worried
I am not overly concerned
My friend implores me, "For one time only,
make an exception." I am not worried
Wrap her up in a package of lies
Send her off to a coconut island
I am not worried I am not overly concerned
with the status of my emotions
"Oh," she says, "you're changing."
But we're always changing

It does not bother me to say this isn't love
Because if you don't want to talk about it then it isn't love
And I guess I'm going to have to live with that
But I'm sure there's something in a shade of grey,
Something in between,
And I can always change my name
If that's what you mean

My friend assures me, "It's all or nothing."
But I am not really worried I am not overly concerned
You try to tell yourself the things you try to tell yourself
To make yourself forget I am not worried
"If it's love," she said, "then we're going to have to think about the consequences."
She can't stop shaking
I can't stop touching her and...

This time when kindness falls like rain
It washes her away and Anna begins to change her mind
"These seconds when I'm shaking leave me shuddering for days," she says
And I'm not ready for this sort of thing

But I'm not going to break and I'm not going to worry about it anymore
I'm not going to bend, and I'm not going to break and I'm not going to worry about it anymore
It seems like I should say, "As long as this is love..."
But it's not all that easy so maybe I should
Snap her up in a butterfly net Pin her down on a photograph album
I am not worried I've done this sort of thing before
But then I start to think about the consequences
Because I don't get no sleep in a quiet room and...

The time when k indness falls like rain
It washes me away and Anna begin s to change my mind
And eve rytime she sneezes I believe it's love and
Oh lord, I'm not ready for this sort of thing

She's talking in her sleep
It's keeping me awake and Anna begins to toss and turn
And every word is nonsense but I understand and
Oh lord, I'm not ready for this sort of thing

Her kindness bangs a gong
It's moving me along and Anna begins to fade away
It's chasing me away
She disappears and
Oh lord, I'm not ready for this sort of thing

(That's "Anna Begins" by the Counting Crows. I didn't write it. I wish I had.)

Aubrey Beardsley drew this for the cover of Oscar Wilde's play Salome. I'm putting it here because I like it.



I also like this. The Nightmare, by Henry Fuseli:



Not much of a blog post, really, but hey, it's things that give me pleasure and inspiration and those things are important. And noteworthy, especially for this particular blog. Whatever that might be.

It's really hot and although I hate hot weather, it makes me sick in a way that gives me so much closer access to thoughts and memories that would otherwise be inaccessible. It tends to put me in a more not-asleep, not-awake state than usual and it makes the world seem more mystical and it makes my memories collapse in a strange way that makes time and place seem immaterial and difficult to differentiate. Reality feels far away, but everything else feels close, and it's a moment of transcendence that I can hold onto for a little while longer than usual.

It's also putting me in a place where I miss him so much that it's making me feel sicker. But maybe I want that too, just a little. To be able to tap into it. Torture myself in order to make my existence a little more interesting. Not healthy, but it's something I do.

I've been so verklempt and generally out-of-commission mentally and emotionally lately that I totally spaced on the 15-year anniversary of Kurt Cobain's death this week. I seriously can't believe that I forgot this year.

Two years ago I had a radio show scheduled on the day of his death, so I got my rotations all out of the way early on in the show and then played nothing but Nirvana, no breaks, no commentary, for the next 30 or 40 minutes, or however long it ended up being. I think my follow-up hosts were a little late that day, for which I was grateful, since I got to play even more.

I think the ten-year anniversary was the day I wore all black to school. I got some strange looks, since it's not something I usually did. When I explained, a lot of my classmates didn't even know who Kurt Cobain was, which kind of made me want to tear my hair out, to be honest.

I guess it just goes to show how far removed from him I've gotten that I didn't even remember his death this year - it wasn't till I was on the phone with my mom earlier and she told me about hearing it on the radio (and talking about the "27 club" in conjunction with that), that I remembered. Back in my really, really dark days, he was this weird symbol to me that held stronger significance than I've ever been able to explain or even understand. It was more than the music, more than the icon - something about him struck something in my young, depressed, anxiety-ridden, severely sleep-deprived self that felt a personal connection and held on tight.

I still have that, to some degree. There aren't many people in my generation who have such a closeness with him, which gives me a kind of protectiveness and possessiveness about him, a kind of appropriation of him as my own. My mom and I were watching something on the greatest hard rock songs of all time (why, I'm not sure; it was probably a lazy Sunday night or something), and "Smells Like Teen Spirit" was, of course, #2 or #3 or something. And all these 80s hair-metal guys were talking about how great Kurt was, and all I could think was, "You know what, fuck you. He couldn't stand you, and you couldn't stand him right back." And who could blame them? This bratty, scrawny little upstart who invalidated everything on which they had made their fortunes and had been playing all these years?

The truth is that there are so many facets to the image and icon that is Kurt Cobain, and the truth is that I don't just love the one of the tortured artist. I love the bratty snot-nosed punk that he was, too, with the childish lyrics he wrote early on and his obsession with bodily functions (seriously, it's kind of creepy.) The husband and father that he struggled to be in his past years, the scared and uncertain kid that he was early on. And the part of him that was conscious of all the fabrication and reveled in creating it; the part that wanted to be famous, god damn it, and the part that hated it. I connected with all of it, and I still do. Even though I don't need him anymore. Not the way I used to.









Forever.

So this will be MOAR HISTORY OF ROCK BABBLING, but whatever.

We talked about early heavy metal today, and in the context of watching footage from Altamont, which I found really fascinating - I'd heard all about the concert and the tragedies and how it signified the end of the 1960s (both literally and symbolically) but I'd never actually seen the footage before. It was pretty amazing to watch the whole thing unraveling before your eyes. Anyway we talked about how both heavy metal and punk sort of arose from the concerns in the wake of the ending of the idealism and optimism that surrounded rock in the 1960s, and in conjunction with that, the rise of arena rock and the differences in concert experiences and the sense of community (I'll get back to that later.)

Listened to some music as per always - first "Whole Lotta Love" by Led Zeppelin, which simply served to remind me just how much I fucking love Led Zeppelin (if that song doesn't move you, and my "move you" I mean make you need to get the fuck out of your seat and MOVE, then there's something wrong with you), and Black Sabbath, which served to remind me why I can't stand Black Sabbath. (If, by any chance, there is a Black Sabbath devotee in the blogosphere reading this, I apologize. I find Ozzy Osbourne's voice infuriatingly grating.) Also, Steve imitated the death metal voice (which was pretty funny, since imitations, along with the real thing, usually sounds like an unusually low-pitched cow being gored to death) and I contributed with an affirmation that that is, indeed, what death metal vocals sound like. I mention this because of the hilarity of virtually the entire classroom turning to look at me with an O RLY?? look on their faces. It was pretty funny.

The point of all of this is that it lead me to ruminate on rock concerts and their connective spirits in general. I've been to a lot of concerts (not as many lately, but I went to a lot in middle school and high school), with my first attendance being the Lilith Fair when I was about eight. (Well, I guess technically my first concert was in the womb - my mom went to see 10,000 Maniacs while she was about 8 months pregnant with me. Incidentally, Natalie Merchant played at the Lilith Fair I attended.) Maybe I didn't feel it at that concert because I was too young - I can't remember it very well - but at virtually every concert I've ever attended, whether it was Bob Dylan or Hanson or Evanescence (yes, those last two are embarrassing, but suck it), I've always felt an extremely strong sense of community and transcendence.

The strongest I ever felt that was definitely at the Dylan concert which I just mentioned, and when I went to see Fiona Apple. When I went to see Dylan, it was without a doubt the most chill concert I have ever attended. There were always people shoving and yelling at every other concert I'd ever been to and I never minded, because it's exciting and it comes with the territory anyway. But this? It was a GA concert, which usually calls for complete mayhem, but my friends and I walked right up to the second row from the stage without the slightest problem. Maybe it was because virtually everyone there was high, but it was so ridiculously relaxed. Waiting for Dylan got very, very tedious. There were three (THREE) opening bands, and I ended up standing in the same couple of square feet for about six hours. It was an unusually cold day in September, and it was wet and cold and uncomfortable. But finally, finally Dylan came out, and then nothing else mattered.

I'm not going to lie and say he was a perfomer in his prime, or anything close to it. He played behind a keyboard, hunched so that we could barely see him. There were no asides to the audience, no banter. His voice was scratchy and thin, and when we did see him, he looked tired. But when he played "Lay, Lady, Lay" I nearly fucking died.

The best moments, though - without a doubt - came during the encore. First he played "Rainy Day Women" (more popularly known as "Everybody Must Get Stoned") and I could hardly even believe he was playing THAT song - of all the things. Everyone started getting out their joints and bongs (as if they weren't all high enough already) and the security guards were all looking around to check if people were getting high, considering the song, which was pretty funny on its own. And then he played "Like a Rolling Stone."

Which was just...I mean, it just felt so historic, and I think it was then that it occurred to me that I was watching Bob f'ing Dylan. When he played the chorus the lights went up on us, and he gave us this little half smile and shook his head, like we were such silly kids for following him like this. Because it was so obvious he would have played the same song the same way whether we were there or not, and it was like we were just allowed to be there and watch. And that's okay. Because he's Bob fucking Dylan and it was true - WE were the priveleged ones.

And after it was over, he took a bow, and made these bizarre hand gestures, and took off his hat (he was wearing this really weird top hat kind of thing - he looked like some kind of pervy Confederate soldier in his suit and reedy little mustache) and - I shit you not - sprinked out glittering dust at us. Dylan dust.

And then, just a couple of minutes later, as we were leaving the field, it started raining.

Fiona Apple was even more communal. Let me start this by saying that I have loved Fiona Apple just about since I turned double digits. There is no musician - nor do I think there ever will be - that has affected me on the personal level the way that she has. If I have a passion for music, it is because of her. I remember one day back in 8th grade (my lowest year, and one of my lowest day) when I came home early from school feeling ill and desolate, and turned on Tidal and closed my eyes. Sometimes that album soothes me in a way nothing else can. I knew every in-and-out of her voice on that album, when every instrument comes in, every word she sings. It's weird to think that I am now the age she was when the album came out.

I went to see her in my junior year of high school. It was a weekday and I didn't go to school. Some people were astonished that my parents let me not go to school to go to a concert, and I told them that if they didn't let me, I would have found a way to hitchhike.

When I went to see her I expected to cry when she was onstage, I expected to sing along to the songs or mouth the words at the very least - but I did none of that. I was too hypnotized. When she was onstage she was so jittery and tiny and mercurial, with her tiny skinny body and her giant eyes. She never sat or stood still, she was always kicking her feet and wiggling her arms and jutting herself out in a strange, nonrhythmic dance. She has absolutely terrible posture. And she had more stage presence than anyone I had ever seen, because there was the knowledge that at any time, she would go from mercurial to catastrophe. When she sang she went so deep that it was almost frightening - and heartbreaking - to watch. I knew that the last time she had toured, she'd had a nervous breakdown, retreated, and ended up holing up in an apartment for a couple of years with no furniture in her house.

There was a moment, midway through the show, when her face started contorting - at first, I thought she was going to have a seizure, and then there was this deathly, deathly angry look in her face. It turned out that the crew was screwing up the mike and let me tell you, Fiona was freaking out. She looked like she could hardly bear it. She looked like she was going to start tearing out her hair, she was storming around the stage - and the band hardly looked even surprised, which made me figure that this was probably a fairly regular occurrence.

And then an amazing thing happened - the audience, myself included, started to sing the song for her. There was this outpouring of love, of compassion - all I wanted was to hug her and tell her that she didn't have to finish the set. She didn't have to try so hard, she didn't have to dig this deep for us, she didn't have to torture herself beyond the point of losing self-control with the depth of these emotions for our sake.

I knew that she'd had no intention of releasing her album until she heard about the uproar her fans were making - they'd thought the record label was holding off on releasing it and they (we) were campaigning to get it released. It turned out that Fiona had recorded an earlier version, scrapped it, and had no intention of returning in the forseeable future. She realized how much people actually wanted her back. And she re-recorded it, released it, and went in tour.

She finished the song, and finished the set, but for awhile, it felt like we were holding her up, giving her our strength when she was searching to give us what she felt our devotion had warranted from her. And for the love of the music, which so clearly is her passion.

It was definitely the most communal, the most transcendent, the most extraordinary concert experience I had ever had.

Hello Satan, I believe it's time to go.

Welcome to my blog, ladies and gents. (Though I suspect this blog is viewed mostly by ladies. Women's college and so forth.)

So I'm creating this in the wake of giving up on my xanga. I've had my xanga since...tenth grade, I think? Therefore it is rife with over-personal crap such as my unending depression (real, actual clinical depression, not emo-kid depression) health issues, and lovelorn drama. Oh, and a few really crappy poems, I think. If you want to read any of that (though I don't know why you would) you can head over to: xanga.com/eclectictsunami Sure, some of it is embarrassing, but hey, it's part of me, too.

So while I was thinking about this during my interminable classes today, I realized that I could possibly say that History of Rock is the best class I've ever taken at Smith (or at Colgate, or in high school, though that latter part should be obvious.) But that's not really entirely true. The truth is that the best class I've taken is American Sounds plus History of Rock - I took American Sounds last spring, a history of strains of American music including blues, country, folk, and Latin music, with offshoots of each. Not because either of them isn't great, but because they really connect and inform each other. While they can certainly stand on their own - and I highly recommend taking both - they're really even better when you take both of them. And they're closely related, and I don't just say that because they're both held on the same days of the week, in the same time slots, in the same classroom, with the same (awesome) professor, and I've taken both of them in the spring.

Okay, so that probably has a lot to do with it. But they're both mad awesome and I just can't separate them for Best Class at Smith status. Just not happening.

Well, I was thinking about this in class - my mind was wandering, which is actually really rare for that class, so it just goes to show how exhausted I am today - and we're talking about Jimi Hendrix right now (woot) and reading this amazing book for it - Crosstown Traffic by Charles Shaar Murray - and there was this passage where the writer talks about how much of the myth of Jimi Hendrix is in his early death. Not to discount from what he accomplished, but that always informs a myth like that. And I got to thinking about so many artists who died young. There's the talk about the "forever 27" group - Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin, Jim Morrison, and Kurt Cobain - but there are so many more.

Jimmie Rodgers, Robert Johnson,  Jimi Hendrix, Buddy Holly, Otis Redding, Eddie Cochran, Ritchie Valens, The Big Bopper, Hillel Slovak, Ian Curtis, Kurt Cobain, Jim Morrison, Janis Joplin, Tupac Shakur, Biggie Smalls...and I'm sure I'm forgetting plenty of others - all were under 30 when they died. Jeff Buckley was 30, John Bonham was 32. John Keats, who we just read a lot of in my English Literary Tradition class, was 27 when he died of tuberculosis. Edgar Allan Poe was 40. And there are countless others.

I wonder, not for the first time, if I'll be among them. I guess at least I can hope that I'll achieve some small fraction of what they have before that happens. Such fucked-up lives a lot of them had, too - depression, poverty, violence, drug addiction. And in some cases, just terrible luck. Can you imagine the differences our cultures might have had if these people had all lived to a ripe old age? For better or for worse. Their great artistry may have been done when all of them died, but we'll never know.

It all comes back to death, I guess. Death and sex. Whether you're talking about literature, music, art, history, or even fucking biology, it all comes back to sex and death.

That's as good a place as any to end this blog entry, don't you think?