The lost boy

“All this has happened before, and it will all happen again. But this time it happened in London. It happened on a quiet street in Bloomsbury. That corner house over there is the home of the Darling family. And Peter Pan chose this particular house because there were people here who believed in him…”

 

When you think of Michael Jackson, what comes to mind first? For me – it’s being a kid. It’s a song you sing and dance to with friends, a car ride, a guy you went to school with who knew all the right MJ moves. It’s doing the moonwalk at a skating rink birthday party. It’s a Halloween night after trick or treating when MTV is playing the “Thriller” video on repeat. 

Something surreal happened yesterday, and to say that it just happened ‘in the world of pop culture’ underestimates everything. The King of Pop is dead. And with Michael Jackson’s death, an entire generation has changed — my generation. The boy who never wanted to grow up…is making us all grow up a bit now. His melodies will still catch us just so, a youthful grin taking over our faces, but the music will never sound the same. He was innovative and influential, and he has inspired hundreds of artists. Michael was a legend even before his death. And in the wake of his untimely passing, he has become immortal. And now there’s a bittersweet feeling I can’t pinpoint. Is this what it felt like when we lost Elvis? And John Lennon? Music really does change us, doesn’t it? Picture him singing, and dancing… 

 

…in a fire engine red jacket on the dark streets where zombies sway, leather clad in pool halls and underground garages, in white shoes and a bow-tie on glowing sidewalks, in a line with 4 brothers, identical orange and yellow costume suits. Michael Jackson once told a reporter that if anyone wanted to know the truth, they should listen to his song “Childhood.” And that’s where he’ll remain now — in the corners of our minds where childhood lingers, the second star to the right…and straight on ’til morning. 

june bugs.

Heads up! This playlist functions like so: to play a song – press the 1st button, to pause it – the 2nd button, and to stop it – the 3rd. To move back and forth to the next track or previous track – press the last two buttons on the right. Hey! It’s your old friend, the boom box – you can handle it. 

Music Playlist at MixPod.com

So, I’ve created a so-called “summer mix.” It’s a collection of new tunes that mingle with a scattering of ’80s and ’90s songs. (There are 15 songs in total.) To clarify, Polaris was a music project created by the band Miracle Legion. The song is actually titled “Summerbaby” but “I Was Around” is more recognizable, and happened to be little Pete Wrigley’s favorite melody of all time. If you’re following this, you get a gold star in my book. Other songs worth mentioning, are “Doot Doot” by the obscure early ’80s band Freur, and my favorite Cake song, “Comfort Eagle.” Don’t be afraid of the Air song. It’s entirely creepy, and has an eerie Manhunter meets The Lost Boys vibe to it. But, yay, summer! 

‘Nostalgia’ is 1 year old.

Happy Birthday, Some Kind of Nostalgia! One year ago today, this blog was born. (The first article was about the former Nickelodeon Studios.) In honor of this day, I’ve decided to include an excerpt from a short story I wrote a few years ago. The idea centers around the memory of childhood, and you should expect nothing less from me. I rarely share my personal writing, so enjoy. 

(And yes, I made this candle. Thanks, Paintbrush!) 

“ We can’t help but look up, our eyes stretching as far as they can to stare into the sun, not because we need to understand what we see, but just because we have to feel it, and know that we like to be hot, or we don’t mind being cold.

I was born in the springtime, a season I can feel in my fingertips as it emerges – and I suddenly envision a bright blue sky, the glittery wrapping paper around a boxed present, paper plates and pizza, frilly party dresses with stockings and red patent leather shoes, the smell of smoke clouding your nostrils after you blow out the candles on a cake toppling over in frosting, pulling blades of grass across the palms of your hand, pigs in a blanket, and the sweet taste of ketchup. I can picture Mom with frosted blonde hair in loose curls, a dress the color of shades that remind you of ice cream, the beaming smile on my brothers and sister, and Dad waving through a large video camera, dark brown hair, and lightly tanned skin illuminated by the afternoon glow of a backyard celebration. 

Every parent forced their children to go to summer day camps. I never wanted to go. The yellow t-shirt with the cheery rainbow across the front was horrifying to me and the counselors were crude teenage girls who smelled like Aquanet. Mom would make me coat myself in sunscreen lotion early in the morning. That scent put knots in my stomach as the station wagon neared the building, and all I wanted was to digest the last hour of the afternoon. I favored the late summer . I’d sit up on the swing set sheltered by a bright yellow roof and a slide to let me escape honeybees and dragonflies. As I hummed along to melodies lost in my daydreams, the willow trees swayed with me, the light motion of their branches grazing my senses.

Summer offered tranquility on overly long, hot days that grip you with the scent of fresh cut grass and the sound of bicycle bells. On those days, you could tumble down hills to find sympathy in the ground and honesty in the clouds. When the heat began to recede, and the sun hid behind the tall chimneys, the light faded with the day. At dusk, the distinct smell of charcoal and fire hung in the air and the damp but refreshing feeling of the day stuck to the surface of your skin. Outside, the mosquito trapper rumbled and buzzed from across the street at the Shoomer’s house. We all hated that sound, but it had meaning to the summer. “

Gemini rising

This past Sunday (the 24th) was my birthday! I ate at the best breakfast joint in the city, rode on a ferris wheel, stood in front of giant Roy Lichtenstein pop art, Miros, and Jackson Pollocks, had dinner at my favorite steakhouse, the kind of place where you’d  find Frank Sinatra back in his day, and then my friends and I did a little karaoke. “Total Eclipse of the Heart” may have happened. 

 

The Modern Wing at the Art Institute in Chicago was just completed, and last week was its  opening week. This giant Lichtenstein piece was centered at the foot of the Contemporary exhibit, and to the right was another mammoth piece of his abstract pop art, and a delicate Andy Warhol near the entry way. The resemblance should confirm your thoughts – Lichtenstein is what inspired the graphic art for my pop culture blog. But, more on that for a later time! 

It was also Bob Dylan’s birthday. So, Happy Birthday, Bob. 

Thank you for the birthday wishes, and to the many friends and readers who continue to support me in my writing: there is so much to come, soon… I promise! 

I’d do it if I could

This time of year always makes me feel like listening to one of my favorite bands, Buffalo Tom, a semi-obscure alternative rock group from Boston. Not only did Buffalo Tom play a large role in one of my favorite television series, My So-Called Life, but they also put down a track on the School House Rock! Rocks album, “Lolly Lolly Lolly, Get Your Adverbs Here.” Let’s just put it this way, if any of my dear friends are reading this, put Buffalo Tom in your mental filing cabinet of “bands I’d love to see live.” Their shows are quite rare to come by these days. 

If you’re in the market for some new music, check out their video, and download some of their other songs. I recommend anything off their 1993 album, Big Red Letter Day: namely, “Sodajerk” and my favorite BT song, “Late at Night.” Their sound is a combination of: Dinosaur Jr., The Replacements, and Blind Melon. If you’re looking for feel-good ’90s with lyrics that make you think, Buffalo Tom is worthy of your ears.

Lancelot?

Yesterday afternoon, my friend Parker and I caroused the city in search of various items we were hoping to attain at a thrift shop. I’ve done a fair share of thrifting in my day, and have scored some of my best purses, t-shirts, and vinyls from doing just that. This past adventure will haunt me, and I felt it necessary to share. 

The Salvation Army we checked out was like Hell on earth. It was two floors chock full of hand-me-downs, seemingly innocent, but something was off. We decided to go up to the second floor to check out the various knick-knacks and furniture. Big mistake. 

It’s stifling hot and smells of second-hand sweat. I’m waiting for steam to begin pouring out from the vents like we’re on the Movie Ride at MGM Studios and Sigourney Weaver is clutching an M41A Pulse Rifle in in the vestibule. People are mumbling to themselves as they delicately handle the many shelves of trinkets. I can’t be sure of what we were in search of anymore, but I feel like Sarah in search of Toby and Jareth the Goblin King. We find ourselves in a back row, filled to the ceiling with dirty Care Bears and Cabbage Patch Dolls, small children sitting on piles of stuffed animals and faded blankets. I think I see a white Persian stuffed cat that looks familiar. And I know this is the saddest thing I’ve seen in a while. (Not really…) I can’t even blink my eyes as I stare into the abyss of ransacked board games and dismembered dolls. It’s as if we are inside a giant playpen that had been struck by a tornado. 

“This would make for a great scene in a zombie movie,” Parker says. Later on, I believe I mentioned to him that I felt like the undead as we crossed the street. But he assured me I still had at least an hour before I turned into an actual zombie. Good thing. 

What can we learn here? Thrift stores are utterly scary, and not because everything needs to be triple washed and sanitized, or because people are thoroughly oblivious to just that, but because it’s a chaotic graveyard. It’s an unsettling resting place for clutter. Aside from the aforementioned movie references, I thoroughly recommend watching these two films back to back in order to understand the chaotic nature of Salvation Army’s upstairs hotbed: 

Gummo (1997) by Harmony Korine, and The Labyrinth (1986) by Jim Henson.

The Lizard King

The other night, my friends and I got into a conversation about what band we’d love to see, dead or alive. A few of us mentioned Led Zeppelin. But, The Doors were a close second in my book. On an average night at a Doors concert, Jim Morrison was known to wildly leap out on stage, drunk and full of intensity and energy, taunting the crowd, shouting lyrical poetry, and finding new and amusing ways to shock his audience with his crazy and unexplained behavior.

 

The Doors started out at small venues like the London Fog on the Sunset Strip. Jim grew a fondness for the booking agent at the infamous dive club, Whisky A-Go-Go, also on the Strip, and The Doors found a semi-permanent spot at the club, among up and coming musicians hoping to land a record deal and make it big. Word about Jim at the Whisky began to increase. The Daily Bruin, UCLA’s student paper, published an upbeat review. Then the Los Angeles Times wrote a piece on Jim when they opened for the Turtles at the Whisky. All of this exposure really gave the band the chance to perform anywhere they wanted, in large arena venues, as opposed to small bars and hot spot clubs in L.A. 

The group went on tour, traveling all over the states and in Europe, where they brought along a film crew to document some of their best and most notable performances. They were the first band to establish “arena rock”, where one band had the ability to sell out tens of thousands of seats in any city at any time of year. He was one of the most sought after and publicized figures of the ’60s, a rock star, an addict, a poet, and a symbol. Without even knowing it, when you consider Laurel Canyon, leather pants, the girl Neil Young may or may not have sung about, The Ed Sullivan Show, and drunken rock & roll debauchery, you’re recognizing Jim Morrison, Mr. Mojo Risin’.

Side note: I was in Paris in 2005 and dragged my family to the Père Lachaise Cemetery. Inside, it’s a maze of stone over 200 years old. Two types of tourists frequent the cemetary – those seeking Oscar Wilde’s tomb, and Jim Morrison fanatics. Benches and trees are covered in graffiti the closer you find yourself to his grave site, arrows and carvings pointing, “This way to Jim.” We were there 3 days after the anniversary of his death and there was a decent crowd, including a man who tried to hurdle the metal barricades surrounding the headstone. An angry Parison security guard emerged from behind another grave and seized him, while people continued to play guitar, sing, laugh, and place flowers and cigarettes at the foot of his grave.

This was the closest I’ll ever get to Jim Morrison, and the crazy antics he brought to life. I have a fondness for him that is difficult to measure. He was an innovative artist, inspired by past musicians, film, literature, heritage, mythical creatures, muses, and well, booze. He lived a short life, like several other artists of that same era. You have to wonder what would have become of him  if he were still on stage today.

Even though Morrison faded out, a burly man with a beard, we picture him when he was at his best. We have recognizable images of rock musicians that passed too early: Buddy Holly, Janis Joplin, John Lennon, Jimi Hendrix…steady reminders of distinctive voices and beats in music. Okay, so this just got all sappy and turned into a “appreciation for dead artists” blog. Cue Don McLean…

Peter Gabriel, too

I could never dislike John Cusack. I could lie and say that I do, but deep down, the art of all things Cusack is a loaded topic. I’m not sure I find him attractive. He’s a bit manic, and he always squints and half smiles. But the more I pick apart John Cusack, the more I love him for all of those things. I root for him because he always plays the underdog, continuously fighting an uphill battle he may or may not win. For example…

Lloyd Dobler. Diane Court gave him a pen and he gave her his heart. The best thing about Say Anything, is how gut-wrenchingly real it kind of is. Once you get past the fact that you probably will never wake up in the middle of the night to a sappy ballad blaring from outside your bedroom window, the movie is just a raw testament to knowing when you have something good. I also appreciate Lloyd’s friend Corey; she puts him in his place and tells him to be a man (and all of her “Joe songs” are inappropriate and amusing.)  ”No one thinks it will work out, do they?” “No. You just described every great success story.” 

Walter ‘Gib’ Gibson. Falls for another Diane Court type in The Sure Thing, a few notches up on the prep scale. He plays an underachieving class clown, with a misunderstood go-getter attitude.  He’s kind of sloppy, but you want him to succeed on some level because you see how smart he truly is. And you want him to break down this Gap girl long enough for her to roll up her self-conscious sleeves and belch beer. ”Consider outerspace…”

Lane Meyer. Better Off Dead is absurd, dark humor. Cusack’s character is suicidal after his girlfriend breaks up with him. And you feel awful for him – because everything seems so twisted and intolerable, which only adds insult to injury. Clearly, he isn’t better off dead; he’s just better off without the girl who leaves him for the captain of the ski team, or whatever. “My little brother got his arm stuck in the microwave. So my mom had to take him to the hospital. My grandma dropped acid this morning, and she freaked out. She hijacked a busload of penguins. So it’s sort of a family crisis.”

John Kelso. What I like about Cusack’s character from Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil is that he has to play a tape with the sound of traffic to go to sleep in Savannah. Call it ‘Southern charm’ but every character is really taken by Kelso. He’s kind of naive; he’s the outsider. But thankfully, he has the drag queen on his side. “This place is fantastic. It’s like Gone With the Wind on Mescalin.”

Rob Gordon. It’s like a broken record player in High Fidelity. (No pun intended.) Again, another Cusack character is dumped by his girlfriend, and he spends the better part of the movie trying to figure out why he can’t get relationships right. Pining. Always pining away. “Nobody worries about kids listening to thousands, literally thousands of songs about heartbreak, rejection, pain, misery and loss. Did I listen to pop music because I was miserable? Or was I miserable because I listened to pop music?” 

There’s this subconscious pull that all women and men (comfortable enough with themselves to admit it) have to John Cusack as an unsung hero of sorts. If unrequited love had a face, it would look like John Cusack’s. Or…Lloyd Dobler’s. Sometimes it’s hard to see the difference.

Rain

When you think of classic ’90s music videos…what do you think of? 

Re: “At Last, I’m on ‘90210′!”

It pains me to do this. (To the male fans who read my blog: spare yourself the gory process of reading any further. It’s about to get all sorts of lame and girly.)

Dearest Diablo Cody, I love you. I do. You created United States of Tara, and the series is genius. We were both born in Illinois, we went to Catholic school, and we’re both gemini. But in your February article in Entertainment Weekly, you said, and I quote, “Fact: the new 90210 is cooler than the old 90210.” I’m willing to give you the get-out-jail-free card, because I’m hoping the only reason you feel this way is because you guest starred in an upcoming episode. And, you spend the greater part of the rest of the article detailing just that. Kind of. But, knights of Columbus, that sentiment could not be further from fact. 

In 90210 v. 2.0, “Degrassi Chick” is relentless. Her face is always screaming questions at me like she’s the newest and youngest poster girl for Botox. And she’s a far cry from Brenda Walsh. Lori Loughlin is not her mom, she’s Aunt Becky. End of story. The teacher, Ryan Eggold is 24, and I have a severe problem with that. The character of Jackie Taylor (Kelly’s mom) has been poorly scripted. They’ve turned her into an even bigger monster than she was when she was still wearing neon dress suits with matching earrings. And the entire West Beverly High landscape is a sham. Where’s the courtyard? The front steps? In the same place they left the original Peach Pit, that’s where. 

Okay. Details aside, where is the plot? The most tolerable episode of the season was when “Silver” had a root canal. I can’t even say that her recent Emily Valentine behavior was worthy. She may have burned all of her video footage in a flower pot, but did she try to burn down a school float? (No.) In the episode where the girls have a “sleep-over” but then turn it into a “rager”, they should have just stuck to girly bonding, had a seance, and summoned the ghost of Scott Scanlan. Maybe I just miss The Blaze, the radio station, Cindy Walsh’s home cooking, all of those surf trips down to Baja with Dylan…

Okay, I know. Denial is a river. I just hope the kids who watch this show these days are under 18 and consciously unaware of what the term “Donna Martin graduates!” means. Better not to know. Listen, if I can be logical about this for a second: aren’t there enough rich kid teen shows on television right now?  The economy is in shambles. How is any teenager supposed to relate to these characters? That sugar powdered window of time when we could all laugh and say, “Oh, but it’s entertainment; it’s an hour to forget our worries” has passed. There’s no such thing as a free lunch, and there’s no such thing as a modern teen drama with gritty, believable material. Let’s take off our rose-colored glasses. Atleast the Walsh family recycled.

Fact: nothing can replace the old 90210. I’d take those floral leggings and James Dean sideburns any day over this. This is  killing the novelty.