I got no idols

I’ve come to the conclusion that rockers and rollers who became popular in the early to mid 90s have to stop writing memoirs. These books are mildly interesting, okayly written (please bow down to my Klostermanly ability to adverb), and incredibly hard for me to resist.

Every time I pick up one of these books I step into a hole in the time-space continuum and it’s 1994 all over again. In fact, it’s so 1994 up in this hizzy that I am actually wearing a shirt I bought in 1994. I like to think that the wearing of the 1994 shirt has more to do with the 55-degree temperature (and my inability to buy any new thermal, long-sleeved longwunderwear shirts) than anything else, but that’s just denial.

Also, I must interrupt this train of thought to tell you that I have new orange socks. I am not generally a socks fan, but these orange socks have me singing a new tune. The love I have for these socks is greater than anything I’ve experienced in a long, long time. These socks give meaning to my life. They are my inspiration.

Anyway, the latest reason for the hole in the time-space continuum is Juliana Hatfield’s memoir When I Grow Up.

I have a soft spot for Hatfield. She was my gateway drug to the likes of Liz Phair, Tori Amos, and virtually every other woman who rocked the 90s. Sure, I had dug chick singers before but they were mostly of the Janet Jackson/Madonna/Cyndi Lauper ilk. Until 1993 my musical sensibilities had mostly been formed by KDWB.

Then I met Jeff Johnson and everything changed. He was the first genuine music geek I’d ever known and he was constantly pushing new things to listen to, introducing me to a new world of music. He had it bad for Juliana Hatfield and his affection rubbed off on everyone around him. In my mind she always be Liz Phair’s nicer, less angry kid sister.

So now I’m 40 or so pages into the memoir (which, like all of them, is good enough, no talk of recoupable debt yet, so I’m happy) and this morning I had to resist the urge to dress in flannel, get stoned, and watch Reservoir Dogs.

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3 Comments

  1. Polly 24.Oct.08 at 6:42 pm

    Hey! Next time you don’t want to resist that urge, just give me a call.

    Reply
  2. AC 26.Oct.08 at 12:05 am

    I have this really complicated relationship with all of this nostalgia stuff.

    I remember being SO repulsed by that Bruce Springsteen “Glory Days” song … I grew up in a small town (but do love Mellencamp’s “Small Town”) and just remember being about 13 and hoping that my life would never, ever come down to thinking my SENIOR YEAR was the best moment of my life. And also living in a small town, many people actually do feel like that.

    I really love the nostalgia trips that so many of these books take me on — but it’s somehow dangerous for me. I think I should really be moving forward culturally and not looking backwards. We’re all annoyed by the politicians still arguing about Vietnam — I hope we aren’t arguing about grunge 15 years from now.

    Reply
  3. Jodi 26.Oct.08 at 9:22 am

    I think nostalgia is okay as long as it does not overpower you. I think of it like a vacation. Sure, I’d like to go back to 1994 but only for like a weekend.

    I agree with you on the danger of getting culturally stuck. We all know those people who never left 1989 — from their hairstyles to their musical choices — and they are frightening. However, I’m a big proponent of the idea that you won’t know where you are going if you don’t know where you’ve been.

    Reply

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