23 June 2001 ~ The pros and cons of Radiohead and the dreariness of being a legitimate Big Kid...

What a gloomy, depressing day. Not that I'm unused to Binghamton being overcast, but it's overcast and COLD and all my clothes are as damp as if I'd just washed them just because I've left the windows open.

I went out last night to my mom's house, where my mom, her partner Penny, and I, got a little tipsy and I decided to introduce them to the Denny's List Game. To make things a little less shocking, I said the Game involved writing down the initials of every person you've ever kissed in your entire lifetime. In an amusing and slightly disturbing twist, my list was the longest. Fortunately, the Game did NOT go past the boundaries Aaron and I regularly pass when playing the Game; that is, there were no stars, arrows, and various cross-outs denoting things beyond kissing, and so forth. Thus, a good time was had by all, especially Penny, who began laughing uncontrollably and toasting my 21st birthday repeatedly.

Afterwards, I went out with Norman and some of his friends at the Bel-mar, a post-ghetto, post-modern, post-coital, post-box sort of bar on the West Side, more notably, the one I've been kicked out of eight bazillion times for being underage... A giant vagina-like lighting system lurks above the bar. A couple of nasty Lost Dog barristas lurk there as well. But no worries; I presented my identification (I knew that passport would come in handy someday) and purchased a drink: a rather strong vanilla screwdriver. Finally -- FINALLY -- I felt like a real Big Kid.

...That is, until I decided to quit listening to the jukebox and join the conversation... I should have just kept listening to the jukebox, which was playing a mish-mash of post-ghetto, post-modern, post-partum selections by Fleetwood Mac and the Beastie Boys. The conversation, by contrast, became most impassioned during the topic of "Why we wish the 80's had never happened."

It never ends.

There certainly was no reason for Duran Duran to get slammed.

Some of Norman's friends are so incredibly opinionated I could slap them. Radiohead is ridiculous; Duran Duran was pathetic; it's unbelievably sad that some people believe Pink Floyd's "Dark Side of the Moon" was progressive. Robert didn't like David Lynch; John didn't like gay people who exhibit rainbow flags; and everybody dismissed the idea that R.E.M.'s musical contributions to the 1980's was worthy of mention. I, the only "townie" at the table, was pushed into a conversation about why anybody would want to live in a dreary place like Binghamton.

I'm NOT, as most people know, a very good debater. Particularly not in the intimidating setting of the Bel-mar, with intimidating companions from Binghamton University's graduate programs. So I sat there and let my town get slammed, I let my music get trashed, I let David Lynch get insulted, and I let the decade in which I was born get shot down. The screwdriver might have made this a little more bearable, but I sipped it slowly, and by last call, all I wanted to do was disappear into a hole. I kissed Norman rather lovelessly on the corner of Chapin Street and walked alone back to my house.

Such negative people, some of these folks! Even Norman -- bright, sweet Norman with his open mind and his clear eyes -- really had no use for my uneducated, youthful opinion. Mes amis, these are the future middle-aged white men who will rule the left-wing part of the world in a few years, and I'm telling you now, it's not going to be pretty. If I could ONLY explain to them that Binghamtonian rain is beautiful; if I could only explain that their students with lesser writing capabilities are NOT worthless; if only I could explain that just fucking because Radiohead doesn't touch them, it doesn't mean it's not valid music... Most of these people don't seem touched by much of anything. Does age make people so bitter? Am I destined for such a cynical outlook in a few years?

But I sat there, because I could, because I'm OLD enough now to sit in the fucking Bel-mar drinking an alcoholic beverage just like everybody else. Not, of course, that anybody knew I'd been rejected from the place only a month or two earlier, but people kind of catch on when you're forced to reveal you saw your first rock concert in 1992. Norman's brother, who happened to have the least amount of nasty opinions to offer, asked kindly, "This isn't really your scene, is it?"

No, it isn't.

I told Norman, just a few days ago, "I just don't think I can offer you as much as somebody else who might have more in common with you." He protested, he said he loved me, he told me he enjoyed my non-aggressive, non-competitive stance on things. He snuggled up to me, he pulled awkwardly at my pajamas, trying to convince me, evidently, that I had plenty to offer. He said he likes my perspective, not so jaded, not so demanding. I wanted to ask him, "Even though I kind of like Radiohead?" But it was late, and I didn't feel like picking a fight about something as fucking dumb as a band that may or may not be progressive and may or may not be over-commercialized.

[I also didn't feel like mentioning I'd recently experienced a great deal of affection for a lovely boy who is in all likelihood, at a Radiohead concert at this very moment...]

[You're right, this is not my scene. I don't HAVE a scene, and I don't think I want one.]

Just to add some irony and a bit more dreariness to this chilly, overcast Binghamtonian Saturday, I'm putting my one Radiohead album on my stereo. I really don't feel right about feeling dreary, though; I'm too young, dammit, to feel dreary. I'm 21 years old, and I have respect for human beings, and I've never smoked crack or taken mushrooms. I like music that maybe isn't all that profound. I despise most beer. I'm unemployed, I'm not exactly rich, I don't have much experience with anything, I don't have much education, and those, I think, are all reasons why I must not sit here bemoaning the senselessness of everything. I have a hell of a lot of opportunity, a hell of a lot of things I've never done or seen. So instead of being dreary, I'm going to be wistful today.

Today, I wish for a hug from one of the two or three people in this universe who honestly respect me, even knowing I sort of like Radiohead. I wish for a friend to sit with me and chat on my porch even knowing I don't have any more beer in my fridge. I wish for the company of one of the two or three people who, in my entire life, have walked through Binghamton with me and said quietly, "wow, what a magical spot..." I wish for a letter from one of my penpals who doesn't think anything is silly at all about my planned pilgrimage to North Bend, Washington. I wish for my life to be filled with people who don't care about my absurdities and obsessions and enthusiastic desires to do weird things. I wish my friend Brian was here, that we were sitting on top of a roof overlooking State Street, that I was holding his hand and begging him to tell me stories about his life. I wish my friend Aaron was here and we were giggling senselessly through our respective caffeine-buzzes. I wish my friend David was here and telling tall-tales about historical executions at the courthouse and unabashedly admitting various loves for various CD's nobody else would ever admit to owning...

...The more I listen to Radiohead, the less they suck... Don't tell my boyfriend.

When I decide to grow up, I hope I can do it among people who don't try to kill my sense of adventure. I hope I can do it without... well, without losing all hope.

[It's getting harder and harder to be alive, to be ME, to love being me, to feel longing instead of resignation, to be passionate about anything at all... It's getting harder to feel young... It's getting harder not to melt into the wise faces with their black pupils and disgusted, complacent irises... It's getting harder to love things I constantly hear being belittled... My dreams are broken down and analyzed; my fears are rationalized; my wild streak is tested by books, by jazz, by cold, committed kisses...]

[We're walking down Main Street together, Brian and I, a hot, sticky afternoon; "Disgust I say, and complacency," I shout. He laughs playfully. "Disgust and complacency!?" I laugh back: "Yes, disgust and complacency!" A juxtaposition if I ever heard one, but an accurate one, and one I want to shield my friend from. He doesn't know, he doesn't have any idea, doesn't know that today, this sunny day in Binghamton, NY, I've forgotten all about disgust and complacency and bitterness and snobbish opinions and the horror of surviving day-to-day without wanderlust and the pain of melting into the overcast eyes of my disillusioned friends and neighbors... He has no idea that today, I am alive, and I can feel again, that mononucleosis and weariness have dissipated, that I feel wild and free and I have a childishly intense impulse to touch his face and tell him he has beautiful eyes... He doesn't know that all I've written in my paper journal since his arrival is, "I'm alive." He doesn't know how appropriately timed his visit is. He doesn't know that the skies in Binghamton aren't usually blue. He doesn't know the things he's touched in me that everybody else has forgotten about. I haven't the heart to tell him how unalive I've been. I haven't the heart to tell him I mean exactly what I say when I burst out, "disgust and complacency!" He doesn't need to be involved.]

Radiohead ended... Time for me to go shower and put something a little more cheery on...

~Helena*

"We're too young to fall asleep..." --Radiohead.

"...and watch out for disgusted complacency..." --Brian