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.