2004-02-21 - 7:49 p.m.
At many of the shows that my friends and I used to go to together when I lived in Portland three years ago we always saw two girls, who looked to be about sixteen. They were together, holding hands, giggling, dressed up in petticoats and studded belts, glitter on their faces. They were tiny and alabaster white, like punk rock pixies, like they’d fallen out of a Francesca Lia Block novel. At one such show, I believe it was Bratmobile and the Aislers Set, Allison Wolfe held a butt shaking contest. Since these girls were right up front, she asked them to be some of the contestants, even though they barely had any butts to shake. “What are your names?” She asked, turning to one of them, “Stormy,” one replied, “Blair,” said the other. This new information sent my friends and I into hysterics, as even their names sounded like Francesca Lia Block characters. But Allison continued, “Are you girlfriends? Or sisters?” They didn’t answer, but just looked at each other, “Oh,” Allison noted understandingly, “You’re not sure.”
So Stormy and Blair not only became a regular feature at shows, but a regular joke and topic of conversation between my friends and I.
The other night I went by myself to see the Gossip and Young People play. Young People make astoundingly beautiful, spooky music. It is twinged with old country and folk songs, the kind that make the hair raise on your neck as Katie (their singer) asks plaintively, “Have you ever been down? Down so low? Cry like the river, Weep like the willow...” Afterwards, the Gossip came on. I hadn’t seen them since I moved to New York and they still put on a great show, which reminded me of all the times I went to see them in Portland with my friends, dancing until we were sweaty and out of breath. The memories were filling me, as I could hardly dance, but just sway, with my heavy book bag at my feat since I hadn’t had time to go home before the show.
A few songs into their set a skinny girl who was totally fashion punked out climbed on the stage to dance. She wore tight, drainpipe pants, a studded belt, a shirt like one could buy on St. Mark’s place that read “Punk Rock Disco” on it and fingerless gloves, plus heavy makeup. “Weird,” I thought, “ She looks like an older version of Stormy or Blair,” and I chuckled to myself, remembering. But, then. Beth said, “Thanks Stormy, everyone, this is Stormy, all the way from Portland.” Omigawd. I almost died laughing. Stormy was still doing the same thing as ever! Super groupie to post-riot grrrl bands, and now she was in dancing with them in NYC, probably getting what she always dreamed about. It was too much, I started laughing out loud. I almost turned to the stranger next to me and told them the story.
The whole show, and especially the Stormy incident, made me remember the year I lived in Portland. It seemed so perfect, the west coast life I had dreamed about with a part time job, bike riding everywhere, being part of a feminist art collective, being in bands and playing shows. Of course, I am totally idealizing here, and I spent a lot of that year a very sad, jealous, resentful and mean person. But standing there in the Knitting Factory, checking my watch so that I wouldn’t miss the last N train (I did anyway and it took me the usual hour and three trains to get home) made me feel horribly, boringly adult.
I like myself a lot better now than I did in 2000 and 2001. I am a lot less self hating and as a result, more understanding and compassionate towards other people. I am very happy being a hermitish bookworm who goes out to coffee and brunch with her friends on the weekends. I appreciate seriousness and sincerity and am a little too “Let’s get down to business” to live on the west coast permanently. But this was one of the first times I really felt like I missed the fun I had with my friends the year I lived in Portland. Of course, fun is a fraught word and I think a lot of fun has to do with a lack of analysis of privilege. I mean, who can have what kind of “fun” is often determined by economics, right? But fun is important. And I feel like for too many “adults” I know (or college students) fun has a lot to do with getting horribly drunk and spending a lot of money. No thanks. Maybe it is living in NYC that has made me, out of necessity, so focused on all the things I want to do. Fun becomes scheduled, not just part of everyday. I have a quiet enjoyment of my life, but the moments where I can point to being a young rock and roller out having fun with my friends are fewer and farther between. I don’t mind growing up, in fact, I welcome it. But there’s something so special I experienced during that year in Portland, something that tugs on my heart still, and maybe with an expectation to find that again is why I have kept going back there, even though I know that those times will never come back and I really don’t want them to.
(if you want the “authentic” recordings of my late and post teen angst, check out my “2001” entires section in “older entries,” hoo-boy)
