Today I found myself struggling to figure out how we were going to meet up with a friend at a large, crowded outdoor event. I racked my brain to remember who among our friends might own a large striped umbrella that we could borrow, or some kind of flag. I considered big weird hats. And then I remembered that we live in the future, and most of us carry handheld communication devices commonly known as PHONES, and I suggested that he CALL ME when he got there. "Welcome to 1998," he wrote back. Thanks. I hope I like it here.
I think this is my problem with half the vampire shit that goes down nowadays. Seriously. From Buffy on down, don't you think the vampires, who are like 250 years old, should spend less time getting all emo and experimenting with hair products, and more time going like, "Which one is the television again? The little one you talk through or the big one with the flat front?"
Now I understand that there are some new vampires, hot ones living in Louisiana and tying each other up for sex and shit. That is ok by me. It makes sense - sexy bondage has been around since the Pharaohs. I am guessing. I wasn't there. I must have read it in a book. Or... I bet there are frescoes - the frescoes that don't travel with the rest of the exhibition. I read so much kids nonfiction, sometimes I think I get a skewed view. 75 books about the Aztec, Inca, and Maya this summer and I found myself at one point saying, "You know, it's weird... most cultures have some kind of big iconographic deal around the phallus, but these are some of the least filthy ancient people I've ever read about," and then realizing well, yeah - you don't put pictures from the Villa of the Mysteries in a book for 8-year-olds.
Where was I? Oh yeah so ok I've just read that one of these vampires, one who looks especially nice with no shirt on, is Stellan Skarsgård's son. Making him Orlando Bloom's brother, yes? I would find if very difficult, if I were his co-worker, not to say, "Earth to Meekus!" every time he blew a line, regardless of his prodigious Scandihoovian hotness. Not that any son of Stellan Skarsgård blows his lines, ever. You get the impression that these Scandinavian motherfuckers are extremely professional. Stellan Skarsgård gave us convincing pathos and grim determination even with a starfish stapled to his face.
Speaking of professional, the picture I saw of Son of Skarsgård (no, not the shirt-off picture, another one) made it look like he shops at frickin Barneys. Now, leaving aside that there is no Barneys within 500 miles of anywhere in Louisiana, why is that man (the vampire character, not the Swedish scion - stay with me, here) shopping? Doesn't everything still fit from like 50 years ago, the last time that suit was in style? That always bothered me about Spike, too. Sure, they pinned him in time to 1978, but why? Guy lives a hundred years and then finds his fashion moment?
Bullshit. Let me tell you. I've lived about a hundred years now (ok, 45) and I found my fashion moment when I was FOURTEEN, when my grandfather died and I inherited all his tuxedo shirts. That's when everyone finds their fashion moment (in their teens, not when they discover that their grandfather had been bizarrely well-supplied with formalwear) (although, I gotta say, that was quite a watershed stylistic moment for little YNL. When I saw the top hats, the ruffles, the tuxes, I was suddenly like, "If happy little grandpas fly beyond the rainbow... why oh why can't I?" I wore that top hat until it fell apart ON MY HEAD. Married a man who called himself "Secretly Flamboyant Scott". Divorced him and married a man whose material possessions consisted of one chair, a diploma from MIT, and forty-seven hats. Thanks, Grandpa!).
Anyway. Like a lot of people, my idea of what's cool is still what was cool when I started high school. Which was 1979. Hm. And I was complaining about Spike because...
... wait a minute ...
Ok maybe the late '70's were, in fact, the coolest time ever and that's why Spike and I both like motorcycle boots. More likely, maybe Joss Whedon and I are exactly the same age. Hm. Joss Whedon and I are almost exactly the same age. What was my point again?
At the library the other day, I caught a look at myself in the mirror in the bathroom and wondered for just a second why I had dressed for work as if I were David Johansen, post Dolls and pre Buster. Getting older is strange. Getting older without actually getting older is strange-er. The phrase "arrested development" comes to mind, but then we're back to the handcuffs, aren't we?