Thursday, July 02, 2009
Slum enchanted evening...
What a deadly week this has been for celebrities, eh?
I've not been inclined to comment on the deaths of various of them, but the deaths in a few days of several cultural icons seemed oddly bookendish, to me. Ed McMahon will of course be forever associated with a golden period in which Johnny Carson held court over the television thrall. When people think of Johnny Carson, at least those who knew of him in living memory, they'll remember Ed saying "Heeeeeere's Johnny!"

Likewise, Farrah was the definitive swimsuit pinup of the 20th century. Although starlets had let their little lights shine previously (Carole Lombard, for one, and decades prior), the Farrah era marked the emergence of the nipple into polite society. Frankly, it's nice that a woman doesn't have to be uptight about such things. Someone I know *ahem* has the sort which would still show even if she wore a brassiere fabricated from composition shingles (or steel pro-panel), so it's kind of nice to not feel like that's something to be embarrassed about. I mean it must be nice. Um. For her.

Then there's Michael Jackson. What an odd duck. The question to me is are we all products of the age in which we live, or is the age a reflection of us? I knew of MJ all along, of course, but in his heyday I was lurking in import record stores and seeking out new music and new civilizations. MJ never really did it for me. I concede he was a masterful hoofer, and some of his music was quite catchy, but it never thrilled me much. Other than the 45 rpm recording of Ben my mom got me when I was a wee lass, I've never owned any of his stuff. I have largely held that cultural eruptions like Jackson mania and the like are a rather unfortunately shared cultural phenomenon, but not truly reflective of the mind of everyone. *shrug* That's not my culture and heritage. I do have one mortifying MJ-related story, though.

Two weeks before my Senior prom in 1984, my very first boyfriend broke up with me. Looking back, he was not the one for me for a host of reasons, but him breaking up with me before the big dance seemed a very nasty thing to do. He was not a local, though, so I knew he wouldn't be there with someone else, either. I knew prom wouldn't be a romantic experience for me. Other kids had family rent hotel suites so the kids could hang out and (one presumes) not get killed by drunk drivers or by driving drunk. I would not have been one of those in a million years. I would be home by midnight. Sober. Not having smoked, dipped or chewed. I did still want to go to the dance, though.

I worked with a guy at Winn-Dixie who seemed harmless but kind of cool. His father owned a tuxedo rental place, so I figured he could arrange for attire easily enough. I told him I was going punk to the prom and asked him if he'd go with me, and he said yes. I went to a fabric store and bought a leopard print t-shirt knit and made a simple dolman-sleeved dress with a V in back that plunged nearly to, uh, my crack.

*Gawd, I just said "my crack" on my blog. Heavens to Betsy*

So, yeah. I wore some zebra-print shoes and a double-wrap red leather belt with spikes and studs and I went punk to the prom in all my mulleted splendour.

Can you believe I'm revealing this without having had a drop to drink? I can't. I'll probably come to my senses and delete this post by lunchtime.

Anyhoo, I can't remember the kid's name, but that was the only time we went out. He showed up at my door-- I'm not making this up-- dressed as Michael Jackson. Black high-water pants exposing sparkly socks, red vinyl jacket with all the zips, and (chagrin!) I think he actually had one sequined glove.

I'm not kidding.

All the meringued beauties from my class in their taffeta and froufrou fairly bawled "SHE RUINED OUR PROM!"

I was so punk rock. I could feel the withering stare from the eyes of the frouffy set as I danced and danced. I had a great time. I had a better time than I would have had with that silly boyfriend.

I'll never forget the surreal moment when I realized "sweet shivering shiva, I'm dancing to JUMP by Van Halen with a guy dressed as and dancing like Michael Jackson." I was grinning hard. It was cornier than Beaulah the cow's shit, but I danced anyway. He was a good dancer, actually, and had the moves down. I was secretly horrified that he was pegging the cheese-meter, but in for a penny, in for a pound. I danced on, as fast as I could, or at least until the coach nearly turned into a pumpkin. Meanwhile those snotty asshats were dissolving in the acid of their own simpering venom from the sidelines.

That fall I was beyond caring about the distant past of high school and all that, but I did collect the yearbook I'd ordered the previous fall. The largest photo in the book said "[My Name] punks out at prom." I briefly considered the idea that this photo, me kicking up my heels, would be a thorn in the side of the killjoy clone-tarts from high school. Yeah, that year I didn't care, but this year, it makes me chuckle.

bEat it, bitches!
Written by phlegmfatale
23 cared enough to comment!

Name: Phlegmfatale
Location: Elsewhere, Texas, USA

I'm not whining;
I'm unburdening.

Learn more here

September 2002

November 2002

January 2003

March 2003

June 2003

July 2003

August 2003

September 2003

October 2003

November 2003

December 2003

January 2004

February 2004

March 2004

April 2004

May 2004

June 2004

July 2004

August 2004

September 2004

October 2004

November 2004

December 2004

March 2005

April 2005

June 2005

July 2005

August 2005

September 2005

October 2005

November 2005

December 2005

January 2006

February 2006

March 2006

April 2006

May 2006

June 2006

July 2006

August 2006

September 2006

October 2006

November 2006

December 2006

January 2007

February 2007

March 2007

April 2007

May 2007

June 2007

July 2007

August 2007

September 2007

October 2007

November 2007

December 2007

January 2008

February 2008

March 2008

April 2008

May 2008

June 2008

July 2008

August 2008

September 2008

October 2008

November 2008

December 2008

January 2009

February 2009

March 2009

April 2009

May 2009

June 2009

July 2009

August 2009

September 2009

October 2009

November 2009

December 2009

January 2010

February 2010

March 2010

April 2010

May 2010

June 2010

July 2010

August 2010

September 2010

October 2010

November 2010

December 2010

January 2011

February 2011

March 2011

April 2011

May 2011

June 2011

July 2011

August 2011

September 2011

October 2011

November 2011

December 2011

January 2012

February 2012

March 2012

April 2012

May 2012

June 2012

July 2012

August 2012

September 2012

October 2012

November 2012

December 2012

January 2013

February 2013

March 2013

April 2013

May 2013

June 2013

July 2013

August 2013

September 2013

October 2013

November 2013

December 2013

January 2014

February 2014

March 2014

April 2014

May 2014

June 2014

July 2014

August 2014

September 2014

October 2014

November 2014

December 2014

January 2015

February 2015

March 2015

April 2015

May 2015

June 2015

July 2015

August 2015

September 2015

October 2015

November 2015

December 2015

January 2016

February 2016

March 2016

April 2016

May 2016

June 2016

July 2016

August 2016

October 2016

December 2016

January 2017

March 2017

April 2017

May 2017

June 2017

July 2017

October 2017

Who links to me?