In Response To the Latest Rolling Stone Issue: “…Anger, Protest and Artfully Applied Eyeliner”

woah

Dear Billie Joe, Mike and Tre,

How is the weather up there? You seem very happy on top of the world. I have communicated with other long-time fans who are not far from their thirties, forties and so on and there is something on our minds. I feel it is important to express in case you ever have any doubt…

Many of us have grown with you and learned that everything changes, but there is a split amongst us – between those who approve of American Idiot and those who write this phase off as a crowd-pleasing gimmick. Nevertheless, we all agree on the following:

If you ever get tired of playing for the new wave of fans crowding the massive arenas or if they should cease to buy tickets and instead flock to the next greatest thing decked out in that year’s fashion – if you find that you have become the media’s method for control – should you face a new kind of tension and your vision becomes cloudy,

It will be okay to wash the eyeliner off.

Forget-me-nots and second thoughts,

Autumn May and The Waiting

Girl Powder


Pop is a steroid. There’s something about an attractive machine created by an intelligent company aware of how to keep its creation shaking the perfect amount of ass while supplying ample B Sides and reinventived mixes that make an hour on the treadmill seem brief.

Britney has decided to take a break with her new family, so I needed the needle to drop down on a different color – something sparkling with off-brand sequins. Still had to be huge, or at least believe itself to be. Something as assertive as the old and new Madonna, with lots of face paint made to emphasize rather than hide wrinkles. In the end, after dismissing the Beyonces and Kylies of the world for being repetitive and boring, I turned to a former Spice Girl.

Geri Halliwell, known and then forgotten by most as “that loud, red-headed one who showed the most cleavage” left the group after heated arguments with the others on her paycheck, though biographies across the internet say her absence had to do with feeling overworked and being bored with Girl Power shit. Likely a combination of reasons, she bailed with confidence that she could top the charts all by herself.

She didn’t, and likely never will. You might have one of her songs on a soundtrack but for the most part she remains invisible. Playing the gay card with several disco-inspired releases and performing cabaret-style at the right charities wearing a tee shirt “dip me in chocolate and throw me to the lesbians”, her following seems to consist largely of a community that relates to the determined artist in heels, struggling to be an image just as great or greater than we knew, before.

What else can you say about a decent-selling artist, the most successful of all Spice solo attempts, who was often seen on the brink of stardom but never stepped forth from the horizon line?

my scan and edit

Despite questionable marketing and mediocre popularity, there are some good things to be found by Miss Halliwell. Her voice is deep and fans of pop music will appreciate the break from many annoying, over-processed American techniques. There is a suggestive theme throughout her discography; not a single track appears to be directed at preteens looking for music that matches their school supplies. No Geri backpacks, no Geri lunchboxes – just melodies with catchy hooks that sneak her onto your playlist…

even if she never caught a proper jet in the mainstream to ride onto our charts.

Clearing All Cookies

I’ve just brushed the gunk and dust off that sticks when you go poking around somewhere toxic.

Tonight I broke from string searches and other google orchestration once I felt boredom kicking in. Unimpressed with the idea of a finished route, I turned my face to the direction of a breeze we all know – wind that, if you allow to hit you, feels instantly familiar. Potentially fatal and against all rules, the warning means about as much to me as the surgeon general’s is to a smoker. My web browser dissolved into darkness immediately and I soon felt someone else’s pain tear me between vengeful merriment and genuine pity.

What I saw in the painful visitation of the past was an immobile soul, still wrestling with shadows while trying to walk proudly through one shoddy result of bad choices. As I stood in my second wind looking back, I had to confess that it was someone who would never feel the release of a truly fresh start. That person will never make it to where I’m going, and so I had to leave them in a place where we can never meet, again.

I know that a few of you have visited there, because your heartbroken entries are the postcards I receive.

“Greetings from the battleground in my soul. In other news, my favorite TV show was a rerun.”

If any of you are wondering what happened to the other stranded victims gone head first into broken promise, you’ll be interested in knowing that they either held onto something until they froze or became one of those prehistoric-looking creatures that dwell in depths we know very little about.

Unless, of course, it was that one who suffered a bit of both fates before being pinned to the mattress while a playful boyfriend tugged at her ratty tee shirt as he read what it had to say.

“Titanic Swimteam?”

She ran her fingers along the neckline’s loose seams, almost having completely forgotten about the reminder that took a second to play across her mind. She knew the important thing about an ancient history that would require decades to explain or much understand.

Simply raising her fist with a grin equally as golden, she answered, “I’m a survivor!”

And if you are that girl, then consider yourself to be very…

Very.

Lucky.