Gold Diggers, Skinny Bitches and Trophy Wives, Oh My!

Cue the Kanye kids; I feel a blog entry coming on…

Want to learn the secret to true and lasting relationship fulfillment? Don’t want to work when you’re over 40 (or perhaps at all)? Wondering why all your type A female friends are “slaving away” while all the bimbos you know are off getting hot stone massages? You need Smart Girls Marry Rich. Penned by the same altruistic mavens who brought you (the thinly veiled vegan-orexic propaganda) Skinny Bitch, Smart Girls Marry Rich is the ultimate guide to achieving security and happiness in your long-term relationship (hint: it has nothing to do with your dude’s sexy blue eyes). Because who else would you trust to give you relationship advice than the women who bestowed upon us the sage like nutritional adage: “Healthy = skinny, unhealthy= fat”?

OK, I know (or perhaps I just hope) that supposedly instructive tomes such as Smart Girls Marry Rich and The Rules are just a bunch of inflated crap that’s designed to be incendiary so the authors can get on talk shows and sign six figure book deals, but I just can’t look away. It’s not just that they fry me… they fascinate me. There is something about looking at a view so violently opposed to my own that I can’t write about it without squirming in my chair. Maybe it is because it forces me to examine and defend my own views, or maybe it’s because I love a fight. At any rate, here’s my take on Smart Girls:

First of all, I can’t stand self-help books that divide all women into two opposing camps. Either you are a miserable, overworked career harpy or a pampered, cerebrally challenged bimbo. Has anybody ever met anyone who truly embodied either of these stereotypes? What if the overworked career woman actually (gasp) finds her job fulfilling? And for the last time, why is it automatically assumed that every woman who doesn’t work outside the home lives a life of leisure? The hardworking (mostly) stay at home mom that raised me would take exception! She worked her ass off bringing up two kids, running a household and helping my dad sustain the family business. To this day girlfriend has never had a hot stone massage, although she sure as hell deserves one.

I may be about to start a feminist shit-storm by saying this, but I’ll say it anyway. Women, whether we’re high-powered career types, stay at home moms, or some amalgamation of those things, make choices. None of these choices are inherently weaker than others, they are just different. I think it is actually pretty cool that at some point in my life I will be able to make a choice to shift my focus from career path to mothering, to some sort of collage of those two things, and back again, as it makes sense for my family and I. I get to decide how to put my life together. Chances are the man I start my family with will never get to make those sort of compromises because it is assumed that the only way any natural red blooded heterosexual male would ever want to contribute to his family is by working a very narrowly defined 9-5 job. We all say how terrific we think stay at home dads are, but the overall subtext is that any man who would give up a life of ambition to focus on fathering is lazy, emasculated and unmotivated. We feel sorry for stay at home dads and the women who marry them. How can she respect him when she makes more money than he does? How can he feel like the man when he’s changing diapers?

Don’t even think your partner might relish having a more equal hand in creating a home bringing up your family. According to the Smart Girls you’re kidding yourself. Ask for anything aside from a traditional male partner who will play his part to provide, provide, provide and you’re asking for trouble. And he better be established before you tie the knot because a self made man whom you support in achieving his goals will leave you once he gains success. Once again, my parents who married in 1972 with 500 bucks between them and went on to start a successful business and own multiple homes would bristle at this assumption.

Nobody asks guys if they “still want to be working at 40.” Nobody expects that men would all be happier if they married wealthy and live their lives sipping Mimosas by the pool. Yet time after time, women are told that we’re supposed to feel unfeminine, nay, unnatural for having a drive, curiosity and ambition that might challenge us to explore (and even find deep satisfaction) outside the domestic sphere. Women’s work is incredibly undervalued in our society, yet we’re instructed that we give up all our chances for power, security and a happy life if we attempt to pursue other types of work. Clearly, the only power that is is safe and appropriate for me to have is the power to get a man to buy me stuff.

Smart Girls really plays into the whole security hysteria that is plaguing our culture right now. Everyone likes to think they could have avoided the stock market crash. We all would like a little more stability in our day-to-day lives. It is tempting to believe that marrying rich can provide that stability. I understand the point Smart Girls makes about the fact that romantic love is fleeting so a marriage that lasts a lifetime needs to be built on something more stable, but I disagree that money is what makes a marriage stable. Just ask all those bankers who are getting divorced by wives who “didn’t sign up for” life in the middle class.

I thought the whole point of an egalitarian society was that we don’t have to depend on our partners for material things so instead we can depend on them for the things that money can’t buy, you know… love, compassion, understanding, emotional support, all the stuff Bernie Madoff can’t embezzle away.

Maybe this is just an oversimplification by one of those single, career oriented, childless harpies. Perhaps once I’m gestating little Frances Bean Peaches Bjork Jr. in my womb I’ll start thinking about the cost of cruelty free prenatal vitamins, cloth diaper service, day care, braces, Rock n’ Roll Camp For Girls and Harvard and send my mate out packing to pull down six figures.

Until then, here’s one thing I do know: life’s a bitch kids. Getting up every day, going to work, making ends meet, raising kids, its hard work. I can’t imagine it all being worth all the toil sacrifice unless I’ve got someone I love deeply in my corner, fighting that fight right alongside me. Life is shitty enough, why the hell would I want to come home in the evening to someone I wasn’t crazy in love with?

Peaches Part Deux: Fashion Redux

One of the fun things about going to shows is that you get to check out all the messed up stuff  the cool kids are wearing.  The Peaches show was no exception. As you can imagine the crowd offered some serious pageantry, ranging from the sublime to the completely douche-tarded.

I’m going to refrain from passing too much judgment on people’s looks as I’m loath to fan the (completely hilarious) flames of the hipster hatred fire. Hipsters after all, are people too, and hating on them has become as trendy as actually being one which makes it totally fin. I’m not sure what it is about hipsters that makes people so angry. OK so maybe if you went to art school and got sick of girls in tutus with rat’s tales talking about their puffy painted thesis projects, then I can understand. There is something about purposely looking bizarre and having absolutely no sense of humor about it that sort of gets me. If you are going to go out every morning with a handle bar moustache and a monocle, you best be able to laugh at yourself. But then, far be it from me to pass judgment on people’s fashion choices. I used to go to school slathered in glitter wearing a nausea-inducing psychedelic polyester dress, red argyle socks, Tevas, a patchwork bucket hat and a Lisa Frank back pack. All at the same time. Yep, I was that girl. That’s what Catholic school does to you.

So anyways, here are my top five favorite looks from a set of people who are clearly not burdened by the constraints of trying to build a tasteful business casual wardrobe. Enjoy.

1) Plaid Flannel Shirt With Matching Rambo- Style Headband.

The girl I saw sporting this look seemed to be channeling Euro joke-pop sensation Gunther.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Too bad she didn’t try to touch my tra-la-la.

(NSFW)

2) Pirate Chic

There will always be a spot in my heart for pirates, but I thought the pirate -chic look was supposed to be oh so five minutes ago? Regardless, any girl who can rock an eye patch with a cocktail dress and still look fierce gets a gold star in my fashion playbook.

She looked just about as glam as this lady, which is to say very.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

3) Members Only Jackets.  

I’m not gonna lie, I’m jealous of anyone with a Members Only Jacket, especially if it happens to be gold lame, like the guy I saw at the Peaches show. Members Only jackets remind me of my grandad, but not in a creepy way, I swear. This particular dude had an old school MJ vibe going on, which was fine by me.

4) Fascinators 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I’ve been a big fan of fascinators for a while now.  In my other, other life (the one where I’m not a blogger or an educator but a girl who likes to dress up as a crazy french lady and high kick down Mass Ave with feathers in her hair) fascinators are my go to fashion staple when I need that little something extra to go with my false eyelashes, ruffled rumba pants, and 60-yard cotton candy pink crinoline. You know, when I feel like being understated. Girls who don’t have a femme to femme drag queen complex like yours truly are sporting them with jeans and T-shirts, which I think is a tres charming way to mix it up a little.  You can get them all over etsy now but this one is from Truly Fallen,  where I’ve gotten some fun stuff in the past. Bonus, the lady who sells them is super nice. 

5) Moustaches

The number one hipster accessory of the mo has gotta be a kickass moustache. And to think, I was once so ashamed of mine that I had it burned off my face with costly laser procedures! But that’s another blog entry. Anyways, kids these days are all about the facial topiary, even Peaches herself is know to be apologetically hairy. The great news is if you can’t grow one, there are a variety of fake moustache options out there on the internet. 

So there it is kids, all the fashion news from the front lines that’s fit to print. And in honor of all things eccentric, I leave you with one more Peaches clip. This one has been my theme song today and it’s rife with some good old fashioned equal opportunity objectification.

(NSFW)

Stuff I Like: Peaches @ The Paradise

Best concert I’ve seen at the Paradise since Patti Smith in 2001. Actually, Patti Smith to Peaches is a pretty realistic comparison. Both of them posess a fearless, ovaries out (hey, this is a feminist blog, I’m making the lingo work for me, dammit) stage presence and both of them aren’t afraid to shit all over stereotypes of what a woman in music is supposed to behave like.

I have a feeling Peaches is what Madonna wishes she could be… you know, actually daring, edgy and relevant. Unlike Madonna, Peaches sings graphically about sex without trying to be stereotypically sexy which ultimately is more of a turn on than the pandering from boring, gym toned pop stars that we’re supposed to accept as hot .

And oh… the costumes. After watching Peaches catapulting across the stage in a sequined unitard with long locks of fake peroxide-blonde hair dangling from the sleeves I am pretty much ruined for buisness casual attire forever. Why can’t I come to work and strut around in a harlequin romper with giant, fuscia balloon sleeves? Why? Sometimes I think I want to be an adult, contributing member of society, and sometimes I’d like to eff it all and run off and make whacked out performance art in a large mirrored space suit. Life is dificult.

So in honor of two of my favorite women who rock, here are some sweet vids:

Peaches, Boys Want To Be Her.

And my favorite Patti Smith song of all times, Horses.

Happy Monday, Kids.

Friday Freak Out

Although they have been the official band of my heart for a while now*, The Flaming Lips’ “Do You Realize” is now the official song of their home state Oklahoma. This does not surprise me seeing as Wayne and the boys (oh, excuse me, it’s Professor Coyne now) are pretty much the coolest things to come out of Oklahoma since, well ever. Pretty much the favorite sons of the Sooner State, they even have a street in OK City named after them. And starting this fall, wanna be rock stars can register for classes with my favorite front man at the new Academy Of Contemporary Music at the University Of Central Oklahoma.

Ain’t nothin’ like the feeling of seeing a band you’ve loved since you also loved flannel shirts and sniffing sharpie markers in the back of Spanish class make good.

This is all sort of making me feel a little inadequate about the Massachusetts state song though.

Anybody out there interested in re-writing it into a freaky post punk ballad? Anybody? Bueller?

I nominate Geek USA…

* and oh hell, I just made them the official band of this blog. Because I’m cool like that.

Monday = Time to Rock Out!

In honor of GeekUSA‘s April Covers project, here is a cover by one of my favorite bands…

 The Flaming Lips doing a cover of what was my favorite Madonna song when I was five. 

Or maybe it was the only Madonna song that my mom wouldn’t change when it came on the radio because it was one of the only ones with lyrics that were vaguely appropriate for a five year old.  I don’t know. The point is, that this is my valiant attempt at blogging more often, even if it is only to post something that you could probably find yourself on the Flaming Lips’ fan website. Totally worth clicking on, the song is simultaneously ethereal and creepy and expansive and everything a Lips song should be. 

 Oh come on, it’s raining, it’s Monday, and I barely got home from work today without having a temper tantrum because my feet were damp and I couldn’t scrape together enough change from in between my car seats to buy a latte.

Fear not though, dear Fever starved readers, I’m working on a blog entry about my musical influences from childhood. I have two words for you, George Michael.

 

More soon!

I pinky swear!

(Smart) Girls On Film

Kudos to GeekUSA for once again proving that he’s the cheese to my macaroni by pointing me to this article in the Boston Globe. The Globe’s Wesley Morris asserts that, “Juno” serves cool, intelligent girls something they rarely see in a movie: themselves. Adds the film’s preternaturally cool star Ellen Page, Juno “dresses like she wants, says what she wants, and doesn’t apologize for it.” Page added: “Girls haven’t had that sort of character before. We don’t have our ‘Catcher in the Rye.’

Part of the whole reason why I started this blog is the first place is because I knew I wasn’t the only girl who rarely sees females she can identify with in modern media. I’ve spent my whole life looking for my Holden Caufield, Max Fisher or Ben Braddock and coming up with pop culture’s equivalent of pocket lint. Sure, movies like Heathers and Mean Girls took a stab at it, but let’s be real, how many of us dated a hot homicidal maniac or looked like Lindsay Lohan in high school?

Warning: Massive spoliers abound. What will you do?

A) Keep on movin’ I loves me some spoilers.

B) Overt my eyes and take me to the kittens! Or better yet, take me to Juno Screenwriter Diablo Cody’s blog!

You’ve been warned.

The author of the Globe article goes on to blast Juno for being unrealistic. I know a lot of people have problems with the movie’s plausibility, but its ability to take an unconventional track is what I liked about it so much. Morris states that, It’s a mite jaded…Juno forgoes an abortion not because abortions are wrong but because having one would ruin the innocuousness the movie’s going for. She doesn’t raise the baby because that would cramp her style. It all looks pretty easy from her perspective.

Her bolt form the abortion clinic may have been inspired by a gum smacking punk touting boysenberry condoms or the idea that her baby had fingernails, we’re left to decide for ourselves. However to me the glibness that Morris touts as unrealistic is the vintage stuff of teenage-hood. Disregarding your moral point of view, an abortion would have been the sensible thing to do in that situation. Who but a teenage girl ditches the predictable route in favor of powwowing with her best friend to scheme up an idea on how to deal with it?

We’ve already seen the movie about the agonized teenage girl sobbing buckets over her decision to keep the baby or not. Ditto on the movie about said girl’s parents and friends turning on her because of her decision or the baby daddy ending up to be a dog. If I had wanted to see that movie I’d have turned on Lifetime. Instead we saw what would happen if the characters in what is essentially a cliche situation made different choices.

I disagree that Juno’s approach to her pregnancy is unrealistically blase. The thing that intrigued me so much about her character was the way she used humor as a coping mechanism. If Juno is the smart girl’s anti-heroine then it makes sense that she’s not going to react to her pregnancy in the expected (pun intended!) way. I like a character that’s a bit of a rogue, a little hard to figure out and doesn’t wear her heart on her sleeve. Maybe they call her reaction unrealistic because she doesn’t react the way we’d expect a teenage girl to. (again, we’ve already seen that movie.) Maybe the problem isn’t Juno, the problem is that we expect too little from teenage girl characters in the first place. Our culture has a very narrow spectrum of acceptable behavior for young girls, and telling your fuck buddy you’re pregnant with his kid while sitting on a trash-picked recliner in his front yard isn’t on that spectrum. Girls in peril aren’t supposed to be sardonic! They’re supposed to vulnerable and weepy! Again, like that movie we’ve already seen!

And also: sucks to anybody who says that Juno’s wiseassery is out of place on a teenage girl and that she’s channeling the disillusionment of a 30 year old. Did the author of this article even go to high school? Clearly, he didn’t know me in high school.

Juno doesn’t learn any of the “respectable” lessons a judgemental public would like a knocked up teen to learn such as just saying no to sex or that all boys are dogs that just want one thing. I think part of the reason why people take issue with Juno is the fact that we’re uneasy with the idea that an unintended pregnancy might not necessarily ruin the life of a nice, white, college bound girl from the suburbs. It goes agains everything we’re taught.

Instead, Juno learns lessons that are ultimately a lot more universal, like the fact that you shouldn’t diss a guy you’re crazy about just because you’re scared of your feelings and that sometimes the person you thought was cool ends up to be sort of a docuhe and the person you thought was totally uptight ends up to be pretty cool.

Being a first of its kind movie, some people just aren’t gonna get it, and that’s OK with me. I got it, and I’m looking forward to seeing more stuff out there like it in the future. At it’s heart, Juno is an ode to the type of smart, alienated, witty girl I used to be. I wish it had been around when I was a kid and if I could wrap it up and give it as a valentine to every teenager I know, I would.

Is My Biological Clock More Like a Ticking Time Bomb?

One of the upsides to blogging about all these fertility issues is that every time I think of my biological clock I begin to think of it more and more as a ticking time bomb. This in and of itself is a little scary, but it has a nifty by-product. Every time I think of the word Timebomb, I think of the Beck song of the same name, which by the way has an awesome video with hamsters in it!

Check it out!

Tick tick tick tick na-na-na-na!

Where was I now? Oh, back to the subject at hand, my fertility. To clarify my last entry, I do not think that Lori Gottlieb is a big fat, anti-feminist party wrecker. Looking back on your freewheeling 20s and 30s as a middle aged single mom, suddenly the idea of breaking things off with that smart funny sweet guy just because of his unnatural passion for soccer seems a little unreasonable. No, you didn’t trade up for that independently wealthy, Mensa-smart Johnny Depp look alike who shares your passion for obscure 16th century poetry and now you are doomed to rifle through the white elephant table of the 40 something dating crowd, and with a kid in tow to boot. So my idealism might seem a little glib looking at it from that point of view. I do not however, see having a partner who says he sympathizes with terrorists may or may not be a closeted gay man as preferable to single parenthood. Maybe if I were looking at it out the other end I might feel differently. However for her sake and the sake of her kid, I hope she settles wisely and happily.

That being said, I think I figured out why this article (and others like it) is so disturbing to me. Simply put, I’m tired of being informed (and quite aggressively sometimes) that I’m lying or fooling myself when I say that I’m content with my life as a single person. It is as if people are telling me that all the things I value about my life… my cool job, my amazing boyfriend and supportive network of friends that have come to be like an extended family to me, are worth nothing if I’m not a wife and a mother. Or at least if they aren’t worth nothing to me now, they will be very soon when my biological clock starts ticking and suddenly I’m hit with the baby fever.

Oh come on, every woman over the age of 21 knows the drill. The conciliatory looks given you from relatives and friends at family gatherings when you tell them again that you aren’t engaged. And then the feeling that you have to make up some sort of tactful excuse as to why you’re cool with being single that nobody’s going to buy anyway.The reassurances are equally as insulting. I’ll never forget the mother of the bride coming up to me at a friend’s wedding and saying, “Don’t worry, there’s lots of great guys out there, you’ll be married before you know it.” Never mind that I was 24, straight out of grad school, unemployed and barely in the head space to date casually, let alone merge finances with someone. When I made a flippant response that I wasn’t in a hurry to settle down she gave me another unfortunate look that said it all, Oh honey isn’t it sad that you’re in denial about how badly you want to be married.

After all, I must be a terribly confused young woman if I choose not to fret about it or (gasp!) actually enjoy being single. I’ve tried reminding them how much fun it is being single in the city. I’ve even cracked jokes about how hard it is to find a straight guy in the theater profession. Those don’t go over too well with my parents’ middle aged Republican golf buddies.

I feel a lot like the Single Girl Who Cried Wolf, trying to convince other people that my life has meaning. But I’ve published poetry, starred in plays and met rock stars! Really, being single is pretty cool!

This year I’m taking a different tack when pestered about marriage, especially now that I’m sure I’ll be reminded that I’m pushing 30. My retort will go something like this: “Gee, I have a fantastic boyfriend that I’m crazy about. He cooks for me, we have great sex, and I don’t have to wash his dirty boxers afterwards. So I’d have to say I’m pretty happy.” I don’t care if it’s rude to talk to someone that way. I’ve been made uncomfortable since I was a teenager by receiving unsolicited dating advice from people who haven’t actually gone on a date since the Nixon administration, now it’s time for me to make them uncomfortable.

Unlike some other women who tell me they feel like they were born to be mothers, I’ve never fantasized about having kids. My mom tells me that she felt the same way until she turned 30, and then she wanted kids yesterday. That’s the part that scares me the most. Occasionally I look at my biological wristwatch and think, “nope, not ticking yet”. On some occasions, such as when I’m in a public bathroom listening to a mom explaining to her child in the next stall that “it isn’t nice to trick people into thinking that you don’t have to go potty”, I think I can actually feel my uterus seal itself shut at the idea of losing the ability to even change my tampon in peace. Nope, having kids still does not appeal to me.

Time and again I’m told that will change. As a friend of mine put it in a way that didn’t make me want to smack the smug smile off her face, “Your feelings on motherhood may not change, but don’t be surprised if they do.”

So what if they do change? What if four years in the future I’m walking aroung, minding my business and POW! My biological time bomb goes off and suddenly I want a baby today.

What if I’m not in the position to have said baby? Am I supposed to be preparing myself for a moment that may never come? What’s the biological equivalent of preparing a fallout shelter for the baby A-bomb? Should I stock up on prenatal vitamins just in case?

Then again, what’s the point of fretting over a day that may never come when I’m perfectly happy the way things are right now? As my friend said, your feelings may change, or they may not.

And if they do change… well there’s so many things I want to do with my free wheeling child-free status before I cash it in for diapers and baby food. I mean sure, my life is interesting enough, but if I’m going to have kids I need to take advantage of this whole freedom deal and do something really amazing… write a book, go surfing in Fiji, perfect my wheel pose in yoga, before I settle down.

The one thing I am sure of is that I really do love my life. No matter what my future may bring, I’m not willing to rush things. I’m not willing to do anything more but be true to myself and live in the moment. Oh, and maybe try hangliding. And learn French.

Rollins vs. Romney

I bring you this brilliance via Boston radio sage Henry Santoro who dropped it on my under-caffinated ass during today’s morning commute on 101.7 WFNX’s new-ish morning show The Sandbox . *

Henry: So Mitt Romney was campaigning in California yesterday and he said this:

And then Henry Rollins bust on stage, grabs the mic from Romney and says this:

Ha! isn’t that perfect!? And isn’t the mental picture of Henry Rollins beating the piss outta Mitler incredibly satisfying!?

Just too damn good not to share.

* No relation to the Edward Albee Play I was in a terrible version of in high school.**

** No really, it was awful. You can ask GeekUSA he saw me in it before we even met and yet he still dates me. Oh hell, just go read his blog.

Read This Book Now

Warning: This book is gonna make you wanna run over to the person you love’s house in your socks and PJs, hug the crap out of them, and make them promise not to die young. And if that’s not possible because it’s like 4 degrees and icy outside at the moment, you’ll just have to hug your stuffed Kermit the Frog doll in lieu of said loved one. You’ve been warned.

You may also see yourself reflected in it a little bit. It may just make you appreciate what you have a little more, but may make you a little bit scared of losing what you have. It will make you think of all the music you dig, and all the music you’re embarrassed of digging. It will make you wish you hadn’t read it, but it will also make you feel privileged to have witnessed all those truths about love, partnership and yeah, loss set to a killer soundtrack.

Love Is A Mix Tape is the true story of Rob Sheffield, born and bred Irish Catholic Boston boy and Rolling Stone rock critic. (A double whammy that I can’t help loving.) His journey from junior high music geek (and the horrifying discovery that girls come to dances to gasp DANCE and not to rock out to Stairway), socially awkward Yalie, harried husband and yes, widow, is chronicled here one mix tape at a time in clever prose that would make any music junkie squee.

Read it and pass it on to anyone you love, especially anyone who loves music.

And don’t stop making and giving away those mix tapes.

Curse You, Joe Meno…

For writing my book before I could.

Hairstyles of the Damned, published by the uber-cool Punk Planet Books, is the tale of do-nothing suburbanite Brian and a recognizable cast of dysfunctional teenage characters, all set to a thrashing punk soundtrack. Told through the eyes of Brian, the prose style has the attention span of an angsty teen and all the manic energy of a one minute punk song. The book gives the reader the effect of snooping in one of Brian’s dog eared notebooks. There we are treated to lists of potential names for his imaginary metal band, a mini-essay on why the Misfits are like, the greatest band ever and step by step instructions on how to punk out your hair, “Without looking like a fucking poseur.”

Heres’ a sample of the prose style:

“The other problem I had was that I was falling in love with my best friend, Gretchen, who I thought the rest of the world considered fat. We were in her crappy car and singing, and at the end of the song “White Riot,” the one by the Clash, I realized by the way I was watching her mouth pucker and smile and her eyes blink and wink, we were way more than friends, at least to me. I looked over at Gretchen driving and she was starting to sing the next song, “Should I Stay or Should I Go Now?” by the Clash again, and I said, “I love driving around with you, Gretchen,” but because the radio was so loud all she could do was see my mouth move.” –from Chapter one

Oh, and did I mention that the book is riddled with references to The Clash? (The only band that f*ing matters, man!) I have a serious affinity to any book that makes references to The Clash, which is why I nearly plotzed myself in the Dublin airport a few summers ago when I got my hands on the Euro copy of Irvine Welsh’s The Bedroom Secrets of the Master Chefs, which opens at a Clash concert. I mean, what better way to start a book than with The Clash? Which is how Hairstyles of the Dammed starts. In a shitty car with a bad stereo, blasting a Clash mix tape. Seriously people, this douchebag wrote my book. A book about alienation, bad haircuts, basement shows and unrequited love. And he had the nerve to set it in a Catholic school. A Catholic school. Catholic school schadenfreude was my thing damn-it, and Joe Meno does it so well.

Another thing I’m pissed about: I’ve spent my entire young adult life thinking my teenage-hood was unique. Growing up my friends and I though we were the new avant-garde. We considered starting bands and publishing crappy zines as more than just ways to pass time, we were rejecting dominant culture, man. And now… this stranger has painted a piss perfect portrait of my so called unique suburban youth. Somewhere, on the south side of Chicago, there were kids living my exact suburban existence. Curse the hippie generation (our parents) for teaching their kids (us) that we were unique snowflakes who could be anything we wanted, when in reality we are all in fact, just a bunch of generic schmucks. It makes for a huge disappointment when we hit the real world and find out other kids dyed their hair with kool-aid. Jeezus.

Not that I dared to consider myself punk in high school in the first place. In those days I was considered a garden variety freak, which was the jock expression for somebody who didn’t dress preppy or listen to pop music but wasn’t bad-ass enough to hang out with the stoners. I had friends who were punk, but I was careful not to look as if I was aspiring to that label. I wore Doc Martins, went to shows occasionally and listened to bands like Rancid and Iggy and the Stooges but to me being punk was something beyond that. It was about piercing your ears with old safety pins, getting drunk, and not giving a shit if one of your teeth got knocked out in a mosh pit. There was something aggressively nihilistic about the whole scene, and if we’re being totally honest here, the lack of regard for personal hygiene was something a girl who’d spent years undergoing painful orthodontia and a plethora of acne treatments just couldn’t embrace. I of the glitter smeared face, psychedelic mini dresses and Lisa Frank backpack (yeah, I was that girl), knew I was nowhere near hardcore enough to get within close range of any of that shit.

Though perhaps not being unique is something special in and of itself. Had I known there were more than five other kids like me on the planet, I may have been far less angsty. But hey, isn’t angst the point of it all in the first place? Is there even a point? Brian, the anti-hero of Hairstyles, could have been any of the socially challenged, sexually insecure and slightly off centered guys I hung out with in high school. Throughout the course of the book he transforms but not the way a traditional young adult character is supposed to. He doesn’t find himself, get the girl or make peace with anything or anyone. When the pounding energy of this book comes to an abrupt stop we aren’t 100% sure that Brain has learned any lessons or is in a place where we, the reader, feel satisfied leaving him. His journey is as chaotic, disjointed, and possibly pointless as the mix tapes he carefully crafts for his friend Gretchen and then wusses out of giving her. This may not be a feel good tale of high school, but it is one that we can all recognize. Maybe it is the fact that Brian’s situation is so ubiquitous makes me as a reader feel that although we aren’t left with the warm fuzzies, the kid is eventually gonna be OK. We’ve all been though what Brian’s been through, and although puberty can be like a frikkin’ bumper car ride with a drunk driver behind the wheel, most of us got through it all right, maybe even with some cool mix tapes to show for it.

Hairstyles of the Damned, in it’s own unromantic way, speaks to a lot of universal truths about teenage-hood. Love sucks, a mix tape really does have the power to change your life, and there really is no feeling in the world like going to a show.