for May 8, 2002
Subpop Goes the Weasel
by Your Diva, Robin Pastorio-Newman
About two months ago, a level-headed amiga of Your Darling, Your Diva,
Your One True Love related a story: she went, with a hardy band of
favored companions, including assorted husbands, wives and significant
admirers, to Acme Underground in New
York City. The evening was a smashing success, complete with memorable
antics by musician friends, wild on Mezcal and the moment. That part of
the story was related to Your Mandarin Orange Pieces by others. The
level-headed amiga was preoccupied with a minor detail: a husband, an
accomplished musician in his own right, said Courtney murdered Kurt.
Planted the flag and sank the ship, no discussing the matter.
Uncharacteristically speechless, our amiga put up a hand and agreed on
one point: no reason to chat. This dully familiar incident merits
mention because it happened everywhere all the time after the suicide,
but eight years after Cobain took the dirt nap, men still strike up conversations
with bright, beautiful women and derride Love.
Guys. Guys. Guys. Give it a rest. This argument will not get you laid.
That's why you talk to bright, beautiful women, right?
Courtney didn't kill Kurt, and Yoko didn't break up the
Beatles, and Mary Magdalene probably wasn't a prostitute, but evidence
is meaningless when an ax is grinding. A meager handful of mortals have
known these people personally - chances are good you're not one of them.
Holding a grudge against people you don't know, who don't know you and
never did anything to you is...?
C'mon. You can do it. Try again. Holding a grudge against people who
never did anything to you is...?
Stuck? Here, sit on the end of Your Glistening Pomegranate Seed's divan.
Are you comfy? The cushion's very soft, a nice velvet, no lumps. Yes.
Would you like a drink? How about some ice? A bendy straw? Are you good
and relaxed? Delightful. Okay, then. Holding a grudge against people who
never did anything to you is ...
You look insecure. Your skirt's too
tight and Mama's calling. You're the prime target for a Charles Atlas
ad. You're the fool Mr. T. won't punch. You're a big baby Dad won't
trust with power tools. You couldn't get a grip without tongs. You, sir,
need a beating, and Your Succulent Pear hopes some fabulous,
fire-breathing babe delivers it, C.O.D. As if that weren't enough, a
Jennifer Lopez movie
trailer informs us chicks now have "the divine right" to defend
themselves against rampaging husbands. The voice whispering this
revelation is attempting to convince us. In 2002, self-respect should
not make the front page, Lifetime should be firmly driven off the
airwaves (preferably with pungi sticks), and tuning the Babelfish during
"Courtney killed Kurt" diatribes yields, "I'm a 98-lb. weakling, deep
down I hate women, and haven't had the courage to proposition that
charming fellow Jurgen. Ooh la la."
Now. If we're clear on that issue, we can try talking about Palomar like grownups. And if we're
especially brave, we can discuss Sleater-Kinney without
©2002 Robin Pastorio-Newman
All material ©2001-2014 Sean Carolan, except as noted.
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