“Own the ineffable process by which almost anything we encounter can eventually turn into something good — even when it starts as something weird that you don’t really understand. But maybe it turns into something. If you work really hard, manage expectations, and give yourself unlimited permission to try things, fuck up, and start over, again and again and again.” (43 Folders)
Words to live by, not only for this blog, but for everything I want to create.
This is Paul Simenon, member of the Clash, who played a bandmate of Ray Winstone. This picture is a perfect embodiment of my ideal man up until the age of, um, 35? Well, until very recently. The look (skinny and carelessly fashionable), the attitude (extended adolescence) and the job (guitar player) are exactly what I liked. In other words, I had bad boy syndrome.
For the record, there is nothing bad about this type of guy. They’re irreverent and rebellious but usually don’t treat people badly. They weren’t following a typical path toward having a family and living in the suburbs, but I wasn’t either and no-one would have called me a bad girl.
Now why do women go for bad boys? There are all kinds of theories, but I think they go for these men because they relate to them. Because these men show them another option. An option that doesn’t involve practical issues like child rearing, paying bills and future stability. An option for the pure intense joy of loving someone in the moment without any of the worries and pressures of suburban family life. We choose bad boys because we want what they are offering. It’s no accident that romance novels almost always offer this archetype of masculinity to the suburban housewives who read them addictively.
I’ve always related to the bad boy rather than the good daddy/husband. I feared the other like they were death. Unfortunately, things have changed and I’m thinking about the future and who I want to live with long-term rather than who I want to spend time with right now. I just don’t quite know how to date with that in mind yet.
Side note: women may also go for truly bad boys, as in boys who treat them badly. That is a totally different issue, and has nothing to do with the looks, income, profession, or lifestyle of the men in question.
So this is the basic gist of Diane’s attitude, as well as the motto on their band T-shirts: I don’t put out. Honestly, this is such a perfect description of my young attitude toward men that it’s almost embarassing. I definitely didn’t put out, and I was disturbed by girls who chased boys and always worried about finding a boyfriend. I wanted to be admired, in the way that everyone wants to be admired, but I only flirted with those few men to whom I felt a strong, visceral reaction. And I never, ever dreamed of marriage. Never.
Some other gems from this film that I probably yelled ‘Hell yes!’ at when I saw it:
“Female existence should not be a rush to the grave. Or worse, the supermarket… none of their beauty should be wasted, or pass unnoticed.”
“What’s so wonderful about getting old? Nothing! What’s so wonderful about getting married? Nothing! What don’t we do? We don’t put out!
(Points out a woman sitting near the stage) “You. Hello. You came here tonight thinking you’d see some cute and wonderful Rock Star… You could be different from all the other girls… Suckers! Be yourselves! These guys laugh at you. They’ve got such big plans for the world, but they don’t include us.”
Ladies and Gentlemen: The Fabulous Stains is a movie that I loved back in the 80s, when I was a care-free, rebellious, music-loving youngster. Watching it now, I see exactly why it appealed to me, and what that says about my attitude toward marriage and relationships.
Diane Lane is a small town girl who starts an all-girl band (with Laura Dern) and inadvertently an early version of the grrl power movement. The Fabulous Stains go on the road with an established band featuring members of the Clash and a young Ray Winstone. Diane sings dressed in a shirt and little else, rants onstage and basically lives out the escape from suburban boredom that every kid like me hoped for. And, oddly enough, in this big-haired still from their music video, she looks much like I looked back in the day. (Only in this still. I don’t actually look like Diane Lane.)
So Bob, a man I dated casually at one time, just announced via social networking site that he has a new girlfriend. In a short burst of public enthusiasm he said he was ‘pinching himself’ because he’s found the woman of his dreams and she felt the same about him. My reaction was intense, and mixed, but basically came down to two things.
First, I felt the sharp, deep stab of pain that I always feel when another of the very few single people I know finds someone. That stab mixes jealousy- because I want a partner, fear -because I haven’t found one, and loneliness- because I have fewer and fewer friends to share the single experience with.
Then I felt the same thrill that I get when the underdog in a movie finally gets the girl. Bob and I have both dated a lot, been afraid of commitment, tried commitment only to get freaked out by it, and found ourselves wondering why we’re always single. So when someone commented on his news “That’s great.” then added “I hope it works out” I recognized it as the comment of someone who has seen you through one failed relationship after another and truly wants you to succeed, but wonders if you ever will. I’ve been on the other side of that comment many times. I’ve made that comment to myself many times. So for all of us who have tried and failed and hope above hope to succeed the next time, I’m really rooting for him.
(still image from Berlin: Symphony of a Great City)
So I wanted to write a post for National Breast Cancer Awareness Month and obviously didn’t make it. I don’t have anything deep to say except that I never understood the importance of pink ribbon outreach until my friend found a lump. She was very young, only 34, when she was diagnosed. Since her first diagnosis she has had three surgeries, three rounds of chemo, and four rounds of radiation, but now it has spread to her bones. There are no words to describe the fear and anger that I have felt. It sucks. Sucks.
‘Alex’ is my best friend. She’s probably the most beautiful woman I’ve ever known in real life, and she’s definitely the most talented artist I’ve ever known. She’s that friend who always remembers a special occasion, and always gives a perfect, meaningful gift. She’s also that friend who has known me so well for so long she always takes me out of whatever random events are happening at the moment and grounds me in the larger picture. But now she is very sick. And there is nothing that I can do.
I’ve been through all of the stages: denial, anger, deep sadness, and frantically running around trying to find that one bit of information that no-one else spotted which will heal her permanently. Then I remembered that it isn’t about me. It’s Alex’s journey. It’s Alex’s illness. And I have to accept it. Period. I have to forget how terrified I am to lose her, how much I hate the pain she’s in, and simply be her friend, support her, and savor every bit of time I can with her.
