Spent a polar June morning (fuck you, Chicago!) finger-banging (fuck me, Chicago!) my way through another unearthed paragon of the early self-publishing career of my Beloved. As Selwyn Harris' seminal (semenal?) HAPPYLAND zine dictates almost non-stop that it be read one-handedly, my catamenia-soaked digital tribute was just. Plus, this HAPPYLAND toadying is as likely to cause pain, emotional changes, breast tenderness and fatigue, so what's the bloody difference?
Crux of Selwyn's long-lost musings: I laugh hard, wince hard, think hard and come HAHHHHHHD.
The sticking point being the tales of obsession and heartbreak surrounding a certain teen-aged golden calf. Somewhere between Travis' feelings for Iris and Traci Lords' complicated relationship with her stepfather lies the truth of something I really have no business over-thinking or applying the logic of to modern times. BUT, that doesn't seem to stop me. And to clear up any confusion, yes, I'm referring to an ex-girlfriend of Selwyn's from 18 YEARS AGO. Bear with me.
Here's my truth: This PEARL of a girl was everything that made a fair-to-middling creature like myself at her (under) age feel like a zip, a zilch, nada. Goose egg. By that definition, you can imagine the exact opposite sensation blessed upon the suicidal megalomaniac granted boundary-less carnal permissions with such a gem. The Big Shot moment to which all future Big Shot moments would be compared (and fall desperately short)? With or without cocaine? I spent my adolescence as a mess in the mid-west who would have sold her baby brother to be a 6-foot-tall, blonde-tendrilled boner-breaker with an older equally-perverted boyfriend. For real. A blue-eyed, tow-headed, white American male newborn, no less!
Let's revisit the early 90's zine craze itself for a spell. I was there. I had my own self-published perversion (SAUCY, "4 Girls, Bi Girls") that turned me temporarily into a low-level local celebrity. Sold through each issue, got recognized in public, paid very rarely for drinks, drugs or shows (except karmically). Had a zine partner whom I hated so badly that I insisted on keeping his dick in me as much as possible, no matter how his girlfriend felt about it. Such an ideal relationship comes with so many sweet memories. Like one night in particular that started with my first 'surprise' anal sex, immediately followed by being told that we couldn't have sex anymore & ending with my first screening of MEET THE FEEBLES. The movie was kind of a blur with my sore, stunned ego and butthole. I think it made me horny. Without the middle part of the evening, it may have qualified as a dream date. My co-editor liked to torture me because I liked someone else more than him that I couldn't have. Eventually, I fucked his roommate. We were very mature and sophisticated.
What can I say. Those were weird days. So many of us creeps were superstars of our own creation with the fan mail to prove it. It was awesome. And it goes away.
17 years later, a girl and boy meet with a lot in common and a lot not in common. A year after that, the girl can sit (or whatever) in their apartment and laugh and cry and jerk off to every line the boy wrote at 23 about every porno theater, peepshow, girlfriend, hooker, popeye, Budweiser, roommate, bartender, movie and record as if they were scrawled for her, her of the understanding that 18 years is a long time, life is fucking magical most days and some of us find our 6-foot-tall, blonde-tendrilled boner-breakers in the form of a middle-aged self-loathing Brooklynite with big dumb blue eyes you could just die in.
I've been speeding up the process of what feels like losing my mind.
In reality, I think it's actually 'feeling' things for, like, the first time ever. Fucking disgusting. I'm terrified that the future is 'nothing.' My future. That I'll play out this teen angst depression/avoidance bullshit till I take my forever nap.
I'm tired of thinking decisions are precious little fucking little precious things that are too important & precious to make. I'm bitter that I really will never be 20 & beautiful & tall & stupid. And happy. And EVERYTHING. I built my house of cards on everyone understanding that I was 'cool.' Extra Special. There's 20 yrs worth of new girls breaking new ground in that area everyday. And I pulled a geographical & don't even have a local fan club anymore (poor me. ME ME ME ME ME MEEEEEEEE).
You know you've hit a dark point when you wish you would have gotten married drunk or knocked up as a teenager just so you didn't have to sit and stare at those things like they are some mortifying coin flips that will magically grow you up, possible kill you, be everything you wanted, or simply elude you like everything else normal & not nearly as stifling as you'd like to think.
I've spent my whole life barely covering some very basic reactionary needs. Like simply not being alone. Now, I genuinely love someone. Someone who 95% of the time seems specifically made for me in ways I could have never even allowed myself to dream of in the past. I naturally magnify that other 5% (it's a tricky 5%, lemme tell you) and live in fear of slipperiness, the weather, and most of all, myself. My aging, smarty pants, too short and not gorgeous self. It's a big world filled with NOT MEs. How could anyone resist that?
One of my good old fall-back eating disorders started to pop up today & I also talked about getting hair extensions. Especially bad signs if you are over 35, have never actually had hair extensions, and are coming around to believe that your former anorexic grandmother may have actually always been right: everyone who weighs 100 lbs (or under) really is happier.
I used the word 'schizopath' in a conversation today completely by accident (wasn't quick enough deciding between 'schizo' and sociopath). My best friend & I instantly loved it, wondered if it was a real word & discovered it's a band on MySpace (good for them).
Anyway, turns out I have a schizopath-sized hole in my soul that gets 95% filled each day. Now if it will just be mine forever..
I'm spending at least part of mine screening the Urban Outfitters' catalog come-to-life that is the new Last House on the Left. I think it's gonna be fucking sexy. Why be ugly when you can be fucking gorgeous. I hope they all have sex with each other.
I'm obsessed with watching Eight is Enough on MeTooTV.
I decided to recast for 2009 because I'm that much of a mental patient. Actors today are so gorgeous, I'm not entirely happy with my choices, but casting for little quirks isn't as easy as it used to be.
*I did find a crazy amount of new girlfriends who would have at least gotten a private audition and a call back. I may write about them later.
Tom Bradford AKA Daddy
Michael Aday or Dave Thomas. My first choice is probably Meatloaf.
Toni Collette was actually my inspiration for the recasting. She's very Abby-ish. To me.
Kyle Schmid. Why not?
Spencer Grammer. Kelsey's kid.
Amber Marshall. She's a little more Susan than Joanie, but she's old enough, she's my girlfriend, and she played Elizabeth Smart!
Ashley Benson. She has all Nancy's assets. Elizabeth Bradford
Sarah Ramos. C'mon! She's perfect.
Bonnie Wright. I don't know nuthin bout the Harry Potter movies, but she'll do.
Graham Phillips is not terribly Willie Ames-ish, but he did sing on Bat Out of Hell 3.
His name is Slade Pearce, which is awesome. Kind of a mid-range Nicolas, but I like it.