Tracy Angelina Evans (tinhuviel) wrote in 67club,
Tracy Angelina Evans
tinhuviel
67club

80s Rant

Crossposted from my journal. Since this concerns our teen era, I figured it might be relevant here.


The George Michael I know and love wears a "choose life" tea shirt and sings about waking up before you go-go. He isn't the anonymous park pervert of the 21st Century. May I please please please just go back to the 80s and live there forever? Please?

I admit it. I've become my Uncle Michael, who is still lodged firmly in the 1950s. He emerges occasionally to sample modern music and culture, but he always returns to his safe haven of that particular decade. My decade is the 80s. Actually, it's just a handful of years from that decade, specifically 1980 through 1985. The music of that time still sings to my soul. It was the age of the synthesiser, the age of taking chances and being different, the age of experimentation. The Second British Invasion of the American music scene was in full swing and I was immensely grateful for some decent music for the first time in ages. It was also my age of innocence, because I was certain that these icons of musical superiority could do no wrong. They scored the soundtrack to my life and they represented for me all I wanted to be when I came of age. I had my first girl crush in 1983, upon seeing the "Sweet Dreams" video by the Eurythmics. Annie Lennox in her spiffy suit and wielding the Riding Crop of Domination quite literally blew my mind. My nickname in high school was George because Boy George was one of my idols. It was Boy George and Robert Smith who essentially taught me how to apply makeup. To this day, I still put more eye shadow under my eyes than over them. Imagine my horror when I saw Boy George, bald, and painted up like a Killer Klown from Outer Space. Whuh?

I know everything changes. I know that time supposedly marches on and only the strong can keep up. I'm not that strong. I've been left behind somewhere in the swelling throng in attendance at Live Aid. Just let me stay there, where Boy George is still decked in Foundation and George Michael offers up careless whispers to his fans and not pot-bellied white van men in London parks at midnight. I don't want to be here in the horrible age, stained by a cynicism that never washes off and broken by dreams that I never realised.

And now my head hurts. Maybe I should apply something...anything...directly to my forehead.
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