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.