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 ...
 
...stupid.
 
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 restraints.
 

 

©2002 Robin Pastorio-Newman