Good morning class my name is Miss 677 and I�ll be subbing for Mr. Pierce today while he is out recuperating from a nasty case of the carpal tunnel syndrome, one of the last remaining syndromes known to man.
Mr. Pierce and I go back to 1994 when I was 21 and living slash existing on Pine Street in West Philly. Back in tha day when the Internet consisted of some lame chat rooms on AOL, back when I made $6.60 watching TV at Annenberg and getting by on Entenmanns chocolate glazed donuts and pasta.
That shit was a long time ago. Now I make five times as much and a chocolate glazed donut would wreak havoc with my slowing metabolism.
Very good class. I am almost 30. And mad as hell.
First things first � housekeeping items. Yeah, I said housekeeping so now you know I am sitting in an office someplace on the east coast. For the sake of level setting, let�s just hold these truths to be self evident mmmmkay:
For those of you 30 plus, an age not a size: 30 is a big deal. It was too you when it happened to you, so don�t deny it. And just cos yr beyond it doesn�t mean yr above it. It�s scary, whether yr married with kids or single and renting. And for us ladies, we get the extra added bonus of all the biological clock shit commentary slash inquisition (the male equivalent: thinning hair? I don�t know but that shit sucks too).
For those of you basking in your 20s for lo the years to come: Please, player please don�t be getting up in my face telling me its all in my head and that I only feel as old as I think slash act cos I will refer you to my calcium supplements, fine facial lines, random grey hairs, inability to consume more than 3 alcoholic beverages on a school night, the 15 pounds I put on and took off this year and a corporate job of nightmarish proportion that requires me to spew useless nonsensical phrases that demonstrate what a total fucking loser sell out I now am. Are we all singing from the same sheet here? Have we mindshare? Or do I need to net it out for you further?
Class of 1990, we�ve lived through interesting times. Always on the cusp we were: the cold war (we had the fear but didn�t grasp why), HIV and AIDS (we�re all just starting to feel the love then we�re all shrink wrapped and paranoid) the Internet (encyclopedias fed our brains, word processors took it all down), the boom (we were close on this one), and now the bust (oh snap we caught it on the back end). But the thing that did us right: the music.
How lucky was I? Busting in to my older sister�s room so I could listen to Pink Floyd, The Who, Styx, and Genesis records. The lamer part of me spent my weekends trying to tape Pat Benatar and the Go-Gos (cassette player next to radio speaker effort) so I could bring said player and 4 C batteries on the bus and feel like a rock star, shit and groupies and all.
Years later, we�ll call them my late teens, I saw the Ramones, the Sisters of Mercy, Public Enemy, the Dead Milkmen, Jane�s Addiction and countless other now non-existent acts live within a twelve month timeframe. I saw the first Lollapalooza as an idealistic saucy surplus wearing 19 year old and only years later caught Nirvana at the Roseland Ballroom. As a DJ at my college radio station, I was on-air when CNN reported Kurt Cobain�s body had been found. No you didn�t?? It�s true.
677�s apex: When she was 16 and saw the Cure/Love and Rockets/ the Pixies in Toronto. She wept. Eyeliner everywhere. She wept cos she knew she�d never feel that way again. And class, me thinks she was right.
Cos here I sit with my lame marketing job that pays for my Volvo (f you too) and downtown apartment reading stories of corporate baby boomer asshole types ruining it for me and my parents. Trying to understand why the fuck O-town gets a TV show and Lance Bass goes to space when the only fing malternative station in Boston wouldn�t play the Afghan Whigs EVER and now they�re gone too. But Eminem gets steady rotation. And the only music I hear that I like slash know slash can sing along to is on some kitschy bone throwing lunch hour horror show.
30 here I come. I can�t eat what I want without acid reflux or drink as much as I used to without other bad shit, and I think my brain has some damage from bygone weeder days. I watch the news and read the paper and gripe about the kids (useless. pointless.) and the adults (tanks middle aged white guys bunny cos that 20K that I earned coming to this (and other) mind numbing spirit robbing job(s) was really only my chump change). Therapy: I long for gap cord overalls ringer t shirts and royal blue nikes and repeat bullshit mantras about my 30�s having the potential to be the BEST and MOST EXCITING!!!!! decade of my life.
Riiiight. At least I�m genX enough to be all whatever and can stare off into space reminiscing about the time I made it to the stage at a Beastie Boys show and had to get pulled out of the crowd by a beefy security guard. Could have pulled me arms right out of me sockets. Yeah and now they�re all divorced and shit too rocking the mid life crisis at the drop of a hat.
Class I�m certain I�ve failed you miserably. Mr. Pierce should be back tomorrow so show him some love and don�t be talking shit about me out in the hall.