Epiphany

You know, I've been meaning to blog. I've been thinking of it every night and then that night passes to the next. Not to say I haven't been knitting or spinning. The mojo recently returned, I had a great birthday, new furry addition to the family....but all of those happy pictures and stories I have to share with you seem dull and lifeless like I feel tonight. I need to blog what I feel and sometimes it just isn't about fiber, at least not tonight. With due respect, we'll keep the happy pictures and stories for another night.

Do you know some of the pop-iconic things that defined some of my childhood memories?

I can sing the entire theme song to the Golden Girls. I can recite Bea Arthur's lines in History of the World Part I verbatim. I wanted to be snarky like Dorothy Sbornak. Who wouldn't want to be that witty?

Gary Papa and Jim O'Brien delivered the news to our dinner table every night on Action News without fail for decades. That legacy came to an end last Friday when Gary lost his 5 year battle with cancer. My Mom had a horrible crush on Jim. He died in a skydiving accident in 83 and it was like equivalent to the the day Princess Di was killed in a crash to this local area. It's weird watching Frasier because Roz is Jim's real daughter and I can see him when I look at her.

I watched Star Search on my grandfather's knee and snuck out of bed to hear "Heeeeeeere's Johnny! " on the Tonight Show.

I wanted Farrah-feathered hair in the worst way even though mine was auburn, ragged and curly. I wanted to have a body like that and a smile that could light up the camera. I wanted to be the 4th Charlie's Angel. I'd squeeze right in between Farrah and Kate Jackson. I didn't think they would mind afterall.

I had a sequined glove and penny loafers with white socks that I bought from Trenton Joes. That's where we bought our Wigwams in the 80s, you know. "Soultown" is programmed in on my satellite in my car just to get the old Jackson 5, Jame Brown, and Quincy Jones songs. I know the entire dance to Thriller. I still have the Vincent Price dialogue memorized. It was the first full length LP that I bought with my own allowance money. I still have it and open it up to the man listlessly laying across the two-cardboard panels with a tiger climbing on his leg. I had those posters on my wall and it drove my Mom bonkers although she thought he was adorable. I played "We Are the World" until I broke the cassette tape. I remember sitting on the ugly green floor of our spare bedroom watching the Moonwalk for the first time and thinking it was complete magic (not the NASA-kind of moonwalk, of course I think it was in the desert of Nevada anyway. Another story). I wanted a red leather jacket with a million zippers and clumsily practiced the moonwalk in front of my full-length mirror while dancing to Billy Jean. I wanted to drink Pepsi and became really frightened of fireworks at the same time. A torrid life depicted in the media that never afforded him peace, strange behavior, questionable parenting, mental illness..... but who cares? That's HIS private life and how the media twists it. You can't discount that kind of musical talent nor the contributions to shape music. Janis Joplin was horribly depressed and mentally ill. Do we focus on the musical contributions? Noooo, we focus on the fact she drank herself to death. James Brown, lots of issues....musical contributions? Nooooo, let's focus on his personal life. Rick James, wow boatloads of media issues and substance abuse. Talent? Absolutely. Do we remember the musical contribution? Not so much. Do you get what I am saying here? We have been given a gift in music. Take the time to cherish it. You might never see that kind of talent again....all of them taken too soon, some a result of their own poor or intentional choices.

I guess I never thought I would experience the words that have come across the TV screen tonight. A different kind of shock. Ok, maybe I'm being nostalgic, but a piece of my childhood went dim tonight.

I almost feel like replaying the good earlier parts of my last 33 years of life by pulling out the My Little Pony dolls on the ugly green shag carpet with yellow walls, watch the A-Team on my old 13" TV with the rabbit ears on it, play my Toto "Rosanna" 45 record until my parent's ears bleed, and dress in my Jelly Shoes and snap bracelets. I want to demand my MTV, scream "Where's the Beef?", and yell "you sank my battleship!", and otherwise not have a care or responsibility in the world, except to be able to color in the lines. Simpler times. Maybe we shouldn't be so offended when our parents treat us like children even in adulthood. Maybe that is a gift in itself because I am still lucky enough to have them here to do that. Suddenly the memories of my youth all come flooding back into my consciousness, some drawing smiles, some nostaligic tears...but day by day every little thing becomes just that, a memory...memories on paper...on film...in my head. Shit is starting to get a little scary.

Generation X is all grown-up.

I'm all grown-up...