Wednesday, February 23, 2005

The Sordid Details

I Love The ___’s

I was reading about Sarah Scantlin, who woke up about a month ago after being in a coma for twenty years. Got smacked by a drunk driver in 1984 at eighteen. Shit boggles the mind. Boom—no more prime. Thud—Stranger in a strange land…twenty fucking years. Though, they say there is significant brain damage, so perhaps some of the full weight of the matter fails to register.

Shit. I’m guessing I’d hope so if it were me.

I’d have been nine years old in 1984. What’s that, like…third grade? That was one my ‘on’ years: class clown and resident pimp at Franklin Elementary. I’d run into the classroom and pretend to trip, throwing myself into the desks, and talk out loud in class. I never broke a bone, but served lots of detention. Stu and I would beat up Oliver English every day. He was a fuckin’ idiot, but we were bastards. I wrangled the three cutest girls in class that year: the first one moved to Ohio soon after, the second one was too mean and I dumped the third almost immediately at the roller rink because my friend told me to.

Ah, that elementary school brand of love. Her name was Levi. No kidding. She didn’t deserve that, but you know…little kids are fuckers.


We were living with the guy who nearly killed my mother. I had a thing for camoflauge, ninjas, and breakdancing. Stu and I would walk down the road, blasting Wham because we were awesome.

So I’d wake up now, at 29 and—shit…ain’t much difference. Except the breakdancing.

I think about all the shit that’s gone down in the last twenty years; how far we’ve come since Culture Club. Since Cyndi Lauper. Why’s everyone dressed so plainly? Members Only jackets, turned up collars, Mr. T, John Hughes movies, checkered Vans (the shoes, stupid), the Cold War…flip de fleur.

And now look. It’s nearly impossible to start listing the last twenty years of American culture. I did pretty shoddy just running off a few eighties things. You know what you do? You fire up VH1’s “I Love The ___’s” and let ‘er rip for about a week. I knew that show was good for something other than Mo Rocca’s repertoire.

Twenty fuckin’ years. The guy that hit her got six months. All he missed was football season.

I was trying to think up things I’d be pissed to have missed but I don’t have much patience for lists. All I got was Guns n’ Roses, Sub Pop Records, Mike Patton, The Simpsons, Ren and Stimpy, Primus and well…shit…just life, I guess.

I started this on the fly hoping to come up with something, but it didn’t work, so: where were you in 1984?

Visit "The Sordid Details"

No comments: