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2002-05-24
Bowie nostalgia, cast of characters, and booze!
I found myself whistling "Cracked Actor" as I was walking to get a soda.
I caught myself humming it as I walked back to my desk.
I pulled out the CD I have of Bowie mp3s, put it into my CD drive, and have been listening to Bowie since.
I hadn't for awhile, you know? You get to a point where you're interested in other things, you move on, you can't really stand to listen to that particular music again, but then it comes raring back -- slapping you upside the head and bringing back all the memories.
Man. So much of last three years in New Orleans involved David Bowie obsession.
Katie and I planned out an entire range of David Bowie song-themed makeup. Cracked Actor was purple-iridescent-black eyeshadow, the kind you smudge all over your eyes and look like you've been out all night getting properly debauched. The Prettiest Star was a shimmery sea green eyeshadow. Let's Dance was a fake bronzer. 1984 was a bronze/gold lipstick. Diamond Dogs was silver glitter. Moonage Daydream was pink.
We would sit up in my loft and listen to Bowie albums. We'd put on Hunky Dory and sing along to "Oh! You Pretty Things" and sigh happily over "Kooks".
We'd walk home from nightclubs, never drunk, but exhausted from dancing, singing "Rock N Roll Suicide" softly to ourselves and "Suffragette City" at the top of our lungs.
We'd dance, we'd laugh, we call up Jen and make her listen. Bowie mix tapes, Bowie CDs, re-watching the terrible Bowie video collection I owned and the Vh1 Legends episode I taped.
Putting a little cut-out David Bowie from hours on top of my Christmas tree. Watching Velvet Goldmine because "it doesn't really matter what a man does in his life. All that really matters in the end is the legend that grows up around him."
We were glittering golden creatures in a world made of silver and moonlight. We were magic, we were fantasy, we were everything we could be.
Yeah, feeling a bit of the old nostalgia. I'll admit it. Listening to Bowie brings it all back. Which is an obvious sign that I am getting old, because you're not supposed to go "Oh, those were the days" until you hit a certain age. And I'm obviously hitting it.
But then again, I can say "those were those days" and have many more of these days -- does that make sense? I can't go back to the way I was, but I can have new and exciting adventures!
Heh. That reminds me of Ft's entry where she detailed everyone around her like it was a movie.
I thought about doing that, but it'd get terribly complicated. So, instead, the simple version:
Me: Read the about page.
The husband: My husband. Generally genius. Darling British geek. I have the love. Obviously.
Katie: Spacetart. Makeup fiend. Anime geek. Probably one of the most beautiful girls in the world. I might be biased.
Jen: Jennifer-Oksana. Trouble in saddle shoes. Spent my wedding trying to look like Audrey Horne. Do you really need to say more?
Dol: Dolores Labouchere. Big Scottish Poof living down in Kent. Basis for Daniel in Elysian Fields. Obsessed with Seth Green. Hence, we have love.
Ft: Faithtastic. Great Big Lesbo. We had a conversation recently where she said "I should stop writing CordySlash. It's just becoming obvious that I'm Mary Sueing whatever character is doing Cordelia." And I said "me too."
Ins: Insomnitic. Media darling. Pop diva. And that's just from that journal.
Sheila: Mimesere. Ins's sweetheart. Old school fan. UCSL started with me, her, and Sali in a chat room going "Hmm, yes, a list." And just generally the girl kicks ass.
The Father-in-law: Obsessed with Louise Brooks, rabid collector of anything, responsible for the scent of sardines as I wake up and the newspapers I knock over in the afternoon.
The Mother-in-law: A dear. Occasionally too fond of organising things. If I complain about her ever, it's because she's moved things around and I've lost them.
Dad: Crazy person. Responsible for 99.9% of all my pop culture loves. Blame him for everything else too.
Dave: My little brother, 'cept that he's 23 and a big man. Less of a dork than I am. But barely.
Mom: Fond of sending me Jesus-based Christmas cards and the occasional bad Christian novel. But generally doing good things for good people. Still don't quite get the "Jesus Makes Me Happy" children's book she sent me one Easter. It was meant for 1 year olds. I was 23.
Work: Miniature wargaming gone horribly wrong. Except maybe horribly right. Anyways, toy soldiers and webdesign. That's my life now.
Man, that's random.
Tonight: Studio party. Which means that it'll be a bunch of game designers, painters, writers, artists, model makers, magazine people, and website designers getting totally and utterly fucked up on free booze.
I have sworn on a stack of Bibles and my blessed Cordelia action figure that I won't get drunk enough to be sick. Once was enough, thank you. And I told my husband this.
Although I have a perfectly good reason not to as well as spousal promises. Tomorrow is another Out House book sale, and I want to go to tell Patrick (the lovely man running the program) that while I don't think I can teach him Dreamweaver (because I suck at teaching people anything), I can easily design up a website with everything that he wants.
It'll be good. It'll be really good. I can get into the community and really help out.
Which is what I want to do. So no hangover for me tomorrow.
Well, maybe a little.
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