Merry Friday, I guess.
And apparently someone important was born today, a long-ass time ago, too? So we should probably observe his momentous birth, I suppose.
Happy birthday, Sir Isaac Newton! I shall feast myself into a dopamine coma in your honour, as I'm sure you would have wanted while you were, in the words of the esteemed Dr. Neil deGrasse-Tyson, "hiding up inside [your] attic on some Harry Potter business."
Seriously, though, my usual nonsense aside, I hope everyone has a good one, whatever your "one" should happen to be. Spend some time with loved ones if you can, even if that's just yourself, your dog, or your favorite movie. Take care of each other and yourselves, don't eat too much, absolutely do not drink eggnog - it's eggs, milk and rum, people, don't do that to yourselves - and enjoy the lights/snow/quiet/mind-deadening din of drunken relatives screaming how the election was rigged (and for those in the last category, may whatever god you believe in have mercy on your whatever, keep your head down and make it out okay.)
In short, as Socrates taught his students, party on, and be excellent to each other.
This zombie of a year is almost dead, folks. We can kill this ugly mf if we just stick to the plan.
Merry Flipping Christmas, Y'all!
Hug your beloveds, don't gorge yourself on too much stuffing and pie, and cherish those new socks.
Adjo, Marie
I had an actual dream about this exact thing some years ago. I know, silly, but that's how dreams are.
Waaaay back in 1987, I was watching CityTV in the living room. I was seven years old, it was summer, and MuchMusic came on, or whatever music video showcase they played back then before everything became it's own speciality channel. I don't remember much of that particular episode, except that it introduced me to what would become my no-fucking-kidding favorite band of all time.
The video in question: "The Look."
The band: Roxette.
The voice: Marie Fredriksson. *Sigh*
I place the blame for my taste in women firmly at Marie's feet, to be honest. The whole '80's aesthetic, the short hair, the leather jacket...yep. Puberty was a good four years away for me, but she was my gateway drug.
Was.
Well shit, typing that just made it real, didn't it?
Anyway, I forgot about the band for a while, but not the song. Life went on, we moved around, I found myself in a hick town populated with assholes. Not important.
1991. I hate the '90's. I hated the music, I hated the fashion, I hated the politics. It can all suck my taint. But it was the year I was reacquainted with an old forgotten love. Someone brought their boombox and the "Joyride" album to a school sports activity day. You know, where all the classes sit out in the sun and run obstacle courses. Yeah. I didn't make the connection between this new album and the video I had seen years before, not for some months after, but I managed to sneak a peek at the album and memorize the band's name this time, and later that year, my aunt asked me what I wanted for Christmas. I knew right away. I said I wanted a Roxette tape. I had "Joyride" in mind, but when I opened that present on Christmas day, it was "Look Sharp" that stared back at me. I was confused. But a gift is a gift and I was always taught to be grateful for any that find their way to you. So I played the tape. And I fell in love again. There it was. There she was. The woman with the spiky blonde hair and the leather jacket. "The Look." Oh god, it was the same band.
And that was the beginning. I played every song a thousand times. "Fading Like a Flower" (which is right now finishing up on my Spotify as I type this. *Sigh* We're all fading like a rose today, Marie.) "Watercolours in the Rain." "Perfect Day," which I would later use as inspiration for an art project in high school. I think she'd have liked that idea.
I eventually found a copy of "Joyride" at a garage sale, picked up it and "Everything" by the Bangles for $0.50, and went home happy as a clam. Eventually, I bought "Have A Nice Day," and "Don't Bore Us, Get To The Chorus." Got "The Ballad Hits" for Christmas. Thanks to the internet, I have literally heard every. Single. Fucking. Roxette. Song. Ever. The radio cuts, the demos with Per doing all the singing, the reduxes and rewrites they did for their producers birthday party. All of it. I listened to the post-Roxette solo albums, even though I can't speak two words of Swedish. Didn't care. I blared that shit for the whole neighbourhood to hear. My own mother, who won't listen to anything recorded after 1971, can identify "Listen To Your Heart" by the piano coda. In short, yeah, probably a bit obsessed. But hey, at least a Swedish 80's pop band is an easier habit to finance than say, crack or Beanie Babies, right?
And yeah, my heart sank when I heard Marie was sick. That's where the dream comes in. It was a few years after she had first gotten ill - again, dreams be weird, yo - and I dreamt that I was reading her obit. Morbid, I hate my brain, and heartbreaking. But I was relieved when I realized she was okay. She was still with us. She made me love music as much as I do, and I didn't want to think of a world without her light in it. Creepy, I suppose, I'm not always the most rational person. But I mean it most heartfelt.
So, with all that out there, all I can say now is, adjö, Marie, och tack för musiken.
Now if you'll excuse me, "The Rain" is playing, and I have something in my eyes.
And here. We. Go.
Okay, so not a lot of people know this, but a few years ago - maybe 2013 or so - I was really down on birthdays. Mine in particular. I just had this sense that my life wasn't anything worth celebrating or remembering, I hadn't done anything with my life up to that point, and in general I just wanted the whole thing to go away and never come back. I suppose that happens a fair bit with some people, but my family has this thing about birthdays, they get really excited about them, and here I was being an ass about it and dragging everyone down.
So I went for a walk. Mercantile therapy, I think it's called. No, I think it's actually called something else, but it eludes me at the moment, so I'll fake it and call it mercantile therapy. That thing where some people go shopping to make themselves feel better. That. I won't bore you with all the details, but I picked up some expensive stuff from the pricier grocery store, and on the way home, walked into a street market the town has every year about that time. The shops set up tables in the street, there's food and music and performers and cosplayers and everything and it reminded me of the festivals and carnivals and street fairs we went to when we were kids, the kind where we'd sit in the park in Hamilton and watch the boats, or in Brantford and have a picnic.
And wouldn't you know it, that wave of nostalgia was exactly what I needed to dig myself out of whatever existential funk I had fallen into.
And every year since then, I've tried to be optimistic about birthdays. It's not always easy, but if one looks around, and it doesn't even have to be that closely, a ray of light can slip in without you even noticing.
So what's the point to all this? Why post this ramble?
No reason. Except that today, I'm 39, and I still don't think I've done much with my life. I'm older, weaker, a bit heftier, a bit closer to the grave. My optimism has always been of the temporal variety - tomorrow, I've got figured out. Ten years from now, not so much. And it's getting harder to keep what optimism I had. Maybe my ray of light's come and gone. Maybe my hope isn't coming this year.
But I'm going to look for it anyway.
You all have a good one. I certainly plan to.
One.
O