It’s Women Writers Week over on Ebert – 5th year in a row! All content on the front page – reviews – interviews – articles – are written by women. Quite a sight! We all pitched stuff for this special week. And my pitch, which was accepted, was An Ode to Supernatural. I am nothing if not consistent. In the middle of Women Writers Week, let’s hear it for the boys.
Max von Sydow’s contributions to world cinema are so vast and so important that only hyperbole will do.
He is now familiar to three generations – or maybe four? – from those who got to know him first through Ingmar Bergman’s films when they arrived on our shores in the 1950s/60s, blowing everyone away. Then there are those who got to know him in the 1970s because of The Exorcist. Or in the 1980s because of his wonderful performance in Hannah and Her Sisters. And now: There are those who know him from The Game of Thrones. Or Star Wars! I saw one headline that read “Max von Sydow from ‘The Game of Thrones’ has died.” Nothing about The Seventh Seal? No? Okay, okay. I think it’s great people know him from all these different things, eras, decades. He was truly international. He worked until the end.
Although his work with Bergman is vast and intimidatingly great, I must pull out Shame, which has a different feel and mood entirely from Bergman’s other films, a jagged hand-held caught-in-the-moment feel. It is one of the greatest of war films. It’s not as well known as The Seventh Seal or Wild Strawberries, but it’s one of Bergman’s very best.
My talented brother Brendan O’Malley is an amazing writer and actor. He’s wonderful in the recent You & Me, directed by Alexander Baack. (I interviewed Baack about the film here.) His most recent gig was story editor/writer on the hit series Survivor’s Remorse. Brendan hasn’t blogged in years, but the “content” (dreaded word) is so good I asked if I could import some of it to my blog. I just wrapped up posting his 50 Best Albums. But I figured I’d keep “Music Monday” going with more of the stuff Bren wrote about music.
His writing is part music-critique, part memoir, part cultural snapshot. A reminder that many of these pieces were written a decade ago, in some cases more. Melody is now my brother’s wife (and like a sister to me), and they have two sons, whom I love dearly. And Bren’s son Cashel is now a college student. WTF.
I have always loved Bren’s writing, so I am happy to share it with you!
Hollywood Bowl, Pt. 2: Radiohead Is Not There
Somehow I am at The Hollywood Bowl and Radiohead is about to take the stage. It is a crisp fall night in Los Angeles. How the one-hit wonders of “Creep” turned themselves into the greatest and most subversive popular rock act in history is something I will never be able to truly comprehend.
When I first heard “Creep” I was singing along by the second chorus. In an era of spearhead, zebrahead, myriad-other-heads, another band ending in -head seemed destined for the scrap heap of marginalia. Even the heavy chunk of the guitar kicking in right before he says “I’m a creep” seemed TOO of the moment. This riff was so spot on it threatened itself with cliche. I wouldn’t have been surprised if we’d never heard from these fellas again.
And then came OK Computer.
Oh, I know they released The Bends before it and “Fake Plastic Trees” was on the Romeo and Juliet soundtrack, but for me, Radiohead truly came into being the first time I heard “Paranoid Android”.
Unsettling. Gorgeous. Terrifying.
Listening to Radiohead for me is like being trapped inside a camera on the nose cone of a missile that will one day descend to earth and wreak utter destruction. Before it makes that awful fall it endlessly circles the planet revealing the true nature of existence through sheer observation.
To truly demonstrate the disparate natures juxtaposed within their music, I used to sing “No Surprises” to my son as a lullaby. He would have been less than one year old so the lyrical content couldn’t keep him awake and petrified.
They are (as close as I can tell…)
A heart that’s full up like a landfill,
a job that slowly kills you,
bruises that won’t heal.
You look so tired-unhappy,
bring down the government,
they don’t, they don’t speak for us.
I’ll take a quiet life,
a handshake of carbon monoxide,with no alarms and no surprises,
no alarms and no surprises,
no alarms and no surprises,
no alarms and no surprises,
Silent silent.This is my final fit,
my final bellyache,with no alarms and no surprises,
no alarms and no surprises,
no alarms and no surprises please.Such a pretty house
and such a pretty garden.No alarms and no surprises (get me outta here),
no alarms and no surprises (get me outta here),
no alarms and no surprises, please.
When I started singing it to Cashel, I made up the words as I went because I didn’t know them. Mine were as follows…
This is the final act
I’m going nowhere fast
No alarms and no surprises
No alarms and no surprisesThis is the pit of love
Fantastic from up above
But when you’re down in it
You’re flying
When you’re down in it
You’re flying low
Now, it doesn’t rival “Rock A Bye Baby” for sheer creepiness, but that is how Radiohead helped my little boy get to sleep.
Radiohead transformed themselves into a juggernaut of iconoclastic melody and bombast. The fact that such a complicated message struck such a widespread core has been a comfort to me. Their artistry articulated something very profound about the new ways in which we related to each other as human beings. Or didn’t relate to each other as the case may be.
Again, somehow I am at The Hollywood Bowl and Radiohead is about to take the stage. And no pristine setting can counterbalance the primal force of decay and despair that roars forth from this collective. They obliterated us. Their sound expanded to fill the canyon. It was as if some Terminator had been created far in the future, all technology and records of human brutality and beauty had been fed into a genesis machine, and then the machine had been given old tapes of The Clash and The Beatles. The result? The collected output of Radiohead.
During their encore, they began looping their instruments and combining them with a found radio broadcast. As the layers grew, the sound now included aspects that were NOT actually present. The song morphed into some twisted actualization of humanity. There were sticks being smashed against animal skins and fingers plucking cat guts stretched into strings there were ones and zeros in the air funneled through silicon steel plastic and ozone.
One by one Radiohead left the stage. The music continued without them. It was out of their hands. Radiohead was no longer there.
— Brendan O’Malley
I reviewed Gavin O’Connor’s latest – after reviewing Miracle earlier this month – The Way Back, starring Ben Affleck in a very effective performance as an alcoholic who finds redemption in coaching a high school basketball team. I love these kinds of movies. My review on Ebert.
Ted Bundy: Falling For a Killer (2020; d. Trish Wood)
I can’t help it. I’ve been reading about Ted Bundy since I read Ann Rule’s book in high school. I hate him so much, but I can’t quit him.
I Was at Home, But … (2020; d. Angela Schanelec)
I reviewed for Ebert.
Never Sometimes Always Rarely (2020; d. Eliza Hittman)
I reviewed Eliza Hittman’s latest – which is fantastic – for the new Film Comment.
The Red Army (2015; d. Gabe Polsky)
A documentary about the hockey dynasty of the Soviet Union, of which the “miracle on ice” was just a small part. I watched it as research for my column on Miracle.
The Pharmacist (2020; d. Jenner Furst, Julia Willoughby Nason)
This Netflix series was both devastating and inspiring. The opiod crisis, as tackled by one heartbroken pharmacist. Right as the crisis was becoming the epidemic that it now is.
Intervention, Season 20, 2 episodes “The Heroin Hub: Chapter 1 and 2” (2020)
I don’t know why I find this show … relaxing? While at the same time it is truly upsetting. I don’t know. Maybe because there’s such a sense of care in the interventionists, they are doing this because of their own troubled pasts, and from a pure desire to help. And sometimes there are success stories. People in so much pain. You just want their pain to stop. So I watched two episodes. I’ve been insanely busy. Pretty much everything I watch now is either for a review or research for a review. I’m not complaining. But I do miss random viewing.
The Dreamed Path (2016; d. Angela Schanelec)
Schanelec is a very interesting and challenging filmmaker. I like her stuff, I like the challenges.
Buffaloed (2020; d. Tanya Wexler)
I really like Tanya Wexler: been hoping for more from her since Hysteria. Here’s her latest. I reviewed for Ebert.
Emma. (2020; d. Autumn de Wilde)
IT IS SO GOOD. I reviewed for Ebert.
La Cérémonie (1996; d. Claude Chabrol)
I saw this in Chicago at The Music Box. I lived right behind the theatre. I was too freaked out by the movie to cut through the alley in between buildings, the way I normally did. I was TRULY unnerved. So I walked down to the end of the block and around, going 10 minutes out of my way. Isabelle Huppert and Sandrine Bonnaire as … well, it’s a folie a deux relationship, my favorite example in cinema. It makes you think, this is how it would go. Masterpiece.
An Old-Fashioned Woman (1974; d. Martha Coolidge)
One of Martha Coolidge’s earliest films. She interviews her grandmother. It’s a beautiful document of family, memory, and an attempt at understanding an earlier generation, particularly the women of that generation. It made me think of my grandmothers, now gone, but I loved them both.
Not a Pretty Picture (1976; d. Martha Coolidge)
I cannot say enough about this film. You must see it. Coolidge was raped in high school. This film is an attempt to come to terms with what happened. The way she does it is casting actors to play herself, her friends, the rapist – and go through a rehearsal process, sometimes stopping to have in-depth discussions about rape, teenage sex, and what Coolidge was trying to attempt. This is a fascinating and personal document.
McMillion$, Season 1, episode 1 and 2 (2020; d. James Lee Hernandez, Brian Lazarte)
We saw this on our weekend away, four women who didn’t know each other – or, each one of us knew Allison, but the rest of us hadn’t met (I did meet Carol once, at a cuh-ray-zee party at a photographer’s studio in Soho, but that was over 20 years ago). We all got along fabulously. And we watched two episodes of this documentary and had an absolute blast. We LOVED this FBI agent guy below. Every time he started laughing, we all started laughing. We had many discussions throughout the weekend about this scam, trying to work out the moral and ethical issues at play.
The Sinner, Season 3, episodes 1 and 2 (2020; d. Adam Bernstein)
I had never seen this series. Allison loves it so again on our weekend away we watched a couple of episodes. We dropped into Season 3. Chris Messina – so good, so sinister. Jessica Hecht – I will always think of her as Blanche DuBois (I saw her play the role brilliantly at Williamstown). And Bill Pullman: old-timers will know my feelings about him, my love of him. I saw him on Broadway in The Goat and had a whole new appreciation of him. If you can see him onstage, do so. It’s a whole other thing.
Valley Girl (1983; d. Martha Coolidge)
I love this movie so much. Coolidge’s first narrative feature. Clearly, I was doing Coolidge research. I have loved this movie for years: I remember well Roger Ebert’s review of it, and it intrigued me enough to seek it out. And then to buy the DVD. This had to be 20 years ago. The DVD has amazing special features, interviews with Coolidge, Nicolas Cage, the producers … as well as a commentary track by Martha Coolidge. We lose SO MUCH with streaming: all this information. It was so fun to dig into this film for my Film Comment piece on Coolidge. It’s a slam-dunk movie. Perfect, really.
The Family I Had (2017; d. Katie Green, Carlye Rubin)
Not sure how I came across this. It’s the story – the horrible story – of a mother whose son killed her daughter. Her son was young, but got a huge prison sentence – 20 years or something like that – and meanwhile, her baby daughter had been killed. It’s horrifying. This woman continues to “support” her son, even though she has no idea what drove him to do what he did. An upsetting watch.
The First 48: Missing Persons, Season 1, episode 1 and 2 (2011)
I watched a couple of these. Clearly I chill out by watching television shows having to do with horrific crimes. But this one is kind of cool, because sometimes the missing person is actually found.
The Joy of Sex (1984; d. Martha Coolidge)
Coolidge’s second movie is about an entire high school – teachers and students – overcome by uncontrollable horniness. It feels like a throwaway. Pretty sure it was barely released (there are almost no reviews of it listed on IMDB).
Real Genius (1985; d. Martha Coolidge)
I mean, this movie is so good. I saw it on a date in high school – with my older boyfriend, who was not in high school. I guess now this would not fly? But we are still friends today. We both loved this movie. And it’s one of those movies that has just grown in stature since it came out (it wasn’t a hit when it came out – there were a couple of other Science Nerd movies that came out the same year, and so Real Genius got lost in the shuffle). But it’s so fantastic. I haven’t seen it in years. I was captivated by it all over again.
Party Wire (1935; d. Erle C. Kenton)
Ye gods, a Jean Arthur film I’ve never seen! It’s the story of a woman living in a small town (Jean Arthur), who works in a bank and spends the rest of her time taking care of her alcoholic father. She falls in love with a hometown boy who had gone off and made good in the world, and rumors start about the two of them having sex. The party-line in the town helps spread the rumor: everyone listens in on their conversations and think they are talking about nights they spent together, when of course it isn’t about that at all. Arthur is so clearly a star, but not a star like Greta Garbo or Katharine Hepburn, who are wonderful but who seem wholly “Other” onscreen. Jean Arthur is one of us. Only funnier and more adorable and with a much better voice.
The Ex-Mrs. Bradford (1936; d. Stephen Roberts)
Jean Arthur and William Powell together: what could be better? They make a great team. Wonderful friendly chemistry, they so clearly enjoy one another.
The Twilight Zone, Season 2, episode 9 “Shelter Skelter” (1987; d. Martha Coolidge)
Coolidge directed three episodes of The Twilight Zone in the 80s. I remember seeing the Christmas one, so the other ones were really fun to discover. This one is about a wacko paranoid Cold War-obsessed husband (Joe Mantegna), who has built a bomb shelter in their basement. His wife (Joan Allen) has finally had it up to here with his obsessions. Blast from the Past has a similar story. Coolidge crams in a lot in half an hour.
Twilight Zone, Season 1, episode 17 “Quarantine” (1986; d. Martha Coolidge)
A very creepy episode where Scott Wilson wakes up into a futuristic world where civilization has disappeared and everyone lives on farms and there are no more cities. Tess Harper plays the creepy “head” of the town, who is determined to integrate Wilson into “their ways”. There are lovely scenes between the two of them.
Plain Clothes (1987; d. Martha Coolidge)
I had totally forgotten this movie, which I saw in the theatre at the time. Starring Arliss Howard as a cop who goes undercover in a high school to figure out why his brother has been accused of murdering a teacher. Another one of Coolidge’s high school extravaganzas, filled with a great cast (including Suzy Amis), and specific atmosphere: there’s no A/C in the school so everyone is drenched in sweat, and the school is also filled with trash: the hallways littered with trash, the pay phones surrounded by trash. It’s never explained. I love that. And Diane Ladd plays an administrative assistant.
Twilight Zone, Season 1, episode 13 “Night of the Meek” (1987; d. Martha Coolidge)
It’s amazing what Coolidge accomplishes in half an hour. It’s a very touching episode, about a drunk guy who has been hired and then fired in his gig being a Santa Claus at a department store. He then discovers that his sack is actually filled with real toys, so he goes to a community center on his block and hands out the toys, creating Christmas cheer. It’s beautiful.
Rambling Rose (1991; d. Martha Coolidge)
This is a major film, not sure why it isn’t called up more often in critical commentary, particularly as an important role for Laura Dern (who initiated the project). Dern was nominated for an Oscar and rightly so. Here she is, a young woman, boldly playing this character whose sexuality is so present it causes disturbances in everyone she meets. And it’s treated sensitively by Coolidge, never pruriently, she’s not overly sexualized in how she is filmed. You can tell the damage that has been done to this young woman. And Robert Duvall – in a career of great roles – has the role of a lifetime here as a good man, a gentleman, who has to come to terms with his own failings and temptations. He has one moment that is sheer brilliance – my favorite moment of his in his career.
Mindy, Season 2, episode 12 “Danny Castellano Is My Personal Trainer” (2014; d. Rob Schrab)
Siobhan and I watched this one night when I slept over, and we cried with laughter. It’s wild to see Chris Messina in a comedic role. He’s fantastic!
Angie (1994; d. Martha Coolidge)
A forgotten film. Why? Geena Davis is great, Jim Gandolfini (pre-stardom) is great. It’s a great New York movie, with all these great locations. Yes, it is melodramatic, but melodrama has often been THE genre to examine women’s lives, their relationships and hardships and struggles. I love it. Worth a watch.
Saint Frances (2020; d. Alex Thompson)
A new film I really liked, which I reviewed for Ebert.
The Prince & Me (2004; d. Martha Coolidge)
A more recent Coolidge film, which again has a melodramatic quality, but it’s appropriate since it’s about this young woman – a serious girl with serious girls – who finds herself falling in love with this guy whom she has no idea is a Danish prince. It’s sweet. It takes young love seriously (one of Coolidge’s enduring themes).
For my next column at Film Comment, I wrote about director Martha Coolidge, who directed Valley Girl, Real Genius, and Rambling Rose (and much more).
I have two pieces in the current issue of Film Comment (neither of which are online, so pick up a copy at your local bookstore – if they have it). The first piece is on Eliza Hittman’s Never Rarely Sometimes Always and the second is on Criterion’s release of Barbra Streisand’s Prince of Tides. You can check out the rest of the articles and reviews – excited to dig in – on their site, where you can also purchase a copy.
My talented brother Brendan O’Malley is an amazing writer and actor. He’s wonderful in the recent You & Me, directed by Alexander Baack. (I interviewed Baack about the film here.) His most recent gig was story editor/writer on the hit series Survivor’s Remorse. Brendan hasn’t blogged in years, but the “content” (dreaded word) is so good I asked if I could import some of it to my blog. I posted his 50 Best Albums. But I figured I’d keep “Music Monday” going with more of the stuff Bren wrote about music.
His writing is part music-critique, part memoir, part cultural snapshot. A reminder that many of these pieces were written a decade ago, in some cases more. Melody is now my brother’s wife (and like a sister to me), and they have two sons, whom I love dearly. And Bren’s son Cashel is now a college student. WTF.
I have always loved Bren’s writing, so I am happy to share it with you!
Hollywood Bowl, Pt. 1: Gayboy at the Hollywood Bowl
Rufus Wainwright will always hold a very special place in my heart. Melody introduced me to him right after we met in 1999. I am used to being the one with the hot album in my pocket so I was pleasantly shocked to hear undeniable genius issue forth. In her Ford Taurus on the way to the Raleigh/Durham International airport, we listened to impossibly romantic and simultaneously vastly sad song after song after song.
In another post I’ll articulate why this perfectly matched what was going on between Melody and I, but suffice it to say Rufus became the soundtrack to my life. He influenced my songs, the way I sang, the way I wrote lyrics, the way I listened.
I’ve been lucky enough to see him perform three times in wildly different settings.
Rufus # 1: CBGB’s
Which is now closed. I don’t remember how I heard about it but an AIDS benefit was happening at CBGB’s. All sorts of queer bands were going to try to put up with the filth that was CBGB’s. I know everyone is all nostalgic about CBGB’s but to my mind it had long outlived its storied past. Clean the fucking bathroom already. David Byrne is not coming back to pick up his shit.
A boatload of horrible music happens and then a grand piano is wheeled out onto the stage. It looks like a tophat on a hobo.
Rufus shrugs his way onto the stage wearing what looks like a chain mail shirt and girl jeans. He sits at the piano and is visibly aghast. This piano pains him, like fringe on a suit jacket. But it is for a good cause so he summons his will and begins to play.
No frills, no accompaniment. He is staggering. He plays a new song “Cigarettes and Chocolate Milk” which I take as some kind of omen because I’d very recently had a meltdown after spilling some while smoking the other.
He does a few of the songs from his first album, which is by now a classic in my mind, as familiar as anything in my collection.
He grimaces at the noises the piano makes while he plays, small irregularities of sound that we can’t hear but are unbearable to him. He is clearly thrown by the force of adulation rushing at him from the crowd. He seems to almost resent their love, like the aging high school jock who blows up at his friends when they start reliving the big play.
Overall it is a night of contrasts; the cesspool of CBGB’s put against the refinement of Rufus’ music; the pull of the masses vs. the lone singular voice of their hero.
Rufus # 2: With Tori
By now Melody has moved to NYC and we can finally openly enjoy Rufus, not weep in private to him separately.
He is opening for Tori Amos at The Beacon Theater. For Melody, seeing Tori Amos for the first time is akin to me seeing The Replacements for the first time. Add Rufus and 9/11 to the mix and it became a Holy Grail kind of deal.
Rufus seems to have relaxed into the spotlight a bit. He is much more at ease, which could also have something to do with the gorgeous piano he gets to play. He also has a guitar on stage. At one point in his set he is wearing a Future Farmers of America hat and joking about how odd that is. The whole show has an intense feel because it is October 2001 and every event in NYC has an extra edge.
Maybe the size of the room relaxes him, makes him feel less under a microscope. Maybe he hated the dirt at CBGB’s. Maybe he just got happier. Maybe 9/11 had opened him up in a new way. He later wrote about it in an amazing song called “11:11” where he notes that “everything really does happen in Manhattan.”
I don’t know what had changed, but the chip on Rufus’ shoulder was gone. Let’s just say that Tori had a tough act to follow.
Rufus # 3: Gayboys at the Hollywood Bowl
When I heard that Rufus was bringing his Judy Garland Carnegie Hall Tribute show to the Hollywood Bowl, I knew I had to take Melody. Her love of Tori and Rufus pales in comparison to her Wizard of Oz fascination. I know, I know, all girls love the Wizard of Oz, but Melody in her usual fashion always took it a step further.
She insisted on dressing up as Dorothy to go to the supermarket as a child. She actually has red slippers. Now I don’t want to paint her as one of those annoying kooks who latch onto something and use it to define themselves. The very fact that she introduced me to Rufus Wainwright should be a testament to her taste and wisdom.
But this is a girl who didn’t dream of being a princess, she dreamt of being Dorothy. So there was no way we were going to miss Rufus singing Judy Garland at The Hollywood Bowl. In addition, Melody was still relatively new to LA and hadn’t been to the Bowl yet. I love killing many birds with one stone so I snapped up tickets.
Let me set the scene for you. A gorgeous Los Angeles night. An outdoor arena. A modern gay icon recreating THE performance of THE gay icon of all time.
There were picnic baskets, monogrammed. Watercress and cucumber sandwiches. Chardonnay. Bowties. Cologne. Not a single unironed shirt. Silk socks. Purely cosmetic eyeglasses. Cufflinks. Tasteful pleats. Decorative sliced fruit laid out on checkered tablecloths. Squeal after squeal in response to Melody’s ruby red slippers.
I was an interloper. An outsider. If it hadn’t been for Melody’s shoes I would have been ostracized completely. As it was, my presence was merely puzzling, as if I were a machine shop gearhead at a Latin club meeting.
Rufus didn’t disappoint them. The tribute element of the show allowed them to fantasize right along with him. They were Judy. They were playing The Hollywood Bowl. They were the apex of culture and refinement.
I fought the urge to smell my armpit and grunt.
Instead I sang along to “Chatanooga Choo Choo” and took a picture on my cell phone of The Bowl lit up like a rainbow. I was the luckiest one of all. I got to take Dorothy no place like home.
— Brendan O’Malley
Of all the pics of screaming Elvis fans, she is my favorite. This is from a show at the Philadelphia Arena in April, 1957. I love it because although people are screaming behind her, she’s the only one in … this particular state. She’s way out there on a limb by herself. The girl down the row, clearly caught up in her own emotions, looks shocked at what is happening with the girl. She’s feeling the same things. Maybe she wishes she could be as free with her feelings. In the second photo, the girl right next to her stares at her with a look of contemplation, like, “Wow. Check THIS out.”
It’s life-changing. To feel things like that. And to feel them so hard you don’t care who knows.
Please note, too, that she brought her binoculars.
My talented brother Brendan O’Malley is an amazing writer and actor. He’s wonderful in the recent You & Me, directed by Alexander Baack. (I interviewed Baack about the film here.) His most recent gig was story editor/writer on the hit series Survivor’s Remorse. Brendan hasn’t blogged in years, but the “content” (dreaded word) is so good I asked if I could import some of it to my blog. I just wrapped up posting his 50 Best Albums. But I figured I’d keep “Music Monday” going with more of the stuff Bren wrote about music.
His writing is part music-critique, part memoir, part cultural snapshot. A reminder that many of these pieces were written a decade ago, in some cases more. Melody is now my brother’s wife (and like a sister to me), and they have two sons, whom I love dearly. And Bren’s son Cashel is now a college student. WTF.
I have always loved Bren’s writing, so I am happy to share it with you!
Just Before Sonic Youth
My college years were inextricably linked to my high school years in many ways. I went to college in my hometown. Every school break we had, my old friends would come streaming back into town and we would catch up. This usually meant drinking way too much beer at someone’s house and then moping around the next day drinking even more coffee, or in Justin’s case, whatever he liked to drink for a hangover.
Late one summer, my friend Mike, the one who got U2 tickets for me, urged everyone to go see Sonic Youth with him. In New Haven? I seem to remember seeing them in New Haven twice over the years, the only two times I ever went to Toad’s. This was the first time I’d seen them and I was quite excited.
Sonic Youth are The Rolling Stones of the American Underground. They seem to have always been there and so it is quite easy to take them for granted. But turn your thoughts back to the ’80’s and see just how truly bizarre and unique they are. They covered Madonna, shepherded Nirvana into their spotlight, kept the same lineup for over 20 years, and managed to incorporate the marriage of their two main singer/songwriters Thurston Moore and Kim Gordon into the dynamic of the band.
But this post is about S.C., the girl I dated when I was a senior at South Kingstown High School. She was a year behind me and from the wrong side of the tracks. I use that outdated phrase deliberately because it perfectly encapsulates the differences between us.
There was a wide gap between us culturally. But young love sometimes feeds on these factors. The romance was intensified by the differences in our lives. She had no intention of going to college. I never entertained the notion of not going. She deeply mistrusted her parents but spent a lot of time with them and considered her mother to be her best friend. I trusted my parents implicitly but would never have called them “friends”. I still wouldn’t. They are my parents! I wondered at the fact that she felt constantly betrayed by her “friends”.
She also had a bit of a “reputation”. She’d dated an older football player and rumors had gotten around. She had nothing to worry about from me. I could barely put my arm around her without breaking into a sweat.
She broke up with me a month before my senior prom. She wrote me a letter and poem that I still have somewhere. In essence, she was reading the writing on the wall. She knew I was going to college. She would be in high school for the next year and then going out into the real world and getting a job. She was letting me go. I was devastated.
But she’d been right. I quickly moved on and dove headlong into college life the next year. Even though I was still in my hometown, I didn’t hear anything about her. Our circles were vastly different and her name simply never came up.
I’m sitting in my room listening to Sonic Youth’s Daydream Nation in anticipation of the evening entertainment. The phone rings at my folks’ house. Either I answer it or my mother calls to tell me it was for me.
It was S.C. She wondered if I could come over right then.
It had been at least 2 years since I’d seen her. I was waiting for Mike and Justin to come get me. Instead I found myself speeding out into the woods to her house which held so many memories…sneaking in her bedroom window, having my first cup of tea, parking and making out at The Great Swamp. I was young, too, but I distinctly remember being in awe of her youth and beauty. Her skin seemed impossible.
These moments flooded me as I approached her driveway. Was she in trouble? Did she want to get back together? In spite of all that had transpired since we’d dated, I could not say for sure that I would turn her down. My feelings for her had not abated in the least. They’d just been abandoned out of necessity.
I walked up the brick to the small house that sat tucked up against the bottom row of trees in a hilly forest. She opened the door and my heart leapt, as usual. In her arms she held a glowing baby girl.
For a moment I had the absurd thought that it was mine even though we broke up over two years ago. Not to mention that we’d never slept together in the first place.
We sat on her couch and reminisced briefly. She’d just wanted me to meet her, she said. She’d worried that I’d heard, that I knew she wasn’t married, that I’d judge her like she was so constantly judged in this town. I told her that I was proud of her, that the baby was beautiful. And beautiful she was. I don’t remember her name.
Mike and Justin were pissed off that I was late. I could barely speak and told them to back the fuck off. Then I apologized and told them the score.
I don’t remember the concert in detail. Thurston Moore shoved a drumstick under the guitar strings and banged on it with another one; Kim Gordon wore a miniskirt and somehow managed to be a pin-up and a renegade all at once; the crowd surged and roared.
Somewhere back in the woods of Rhode Island, a young mother put her baby girl to bed. What had my blessing meant to her?
— Brendan O’Malley
