It can be years — hell, it can be decades — since last hearing a song, but the music and lyrics come back to me, and it floods my mind with memories of when and where I’ve heard it before.
I accredit this to my mother, who always had music playing while I was growing up. In the house, she had an extensive vinyl collection that extended back to the days of her youth, and in the car, she’d have mixtapes she spent hours compiling. She followed my lead on the portable electronics front, going through multiple generations of Walkmans and Discmans alongside me, and fully embraced the streaming movement right before she died. Spotify was pretty close to replacing me as her favorite child.
The weekend she died, my aunt, sister, and I went to see Guardians of the Galaxy to get our mind off it for a couple hours. What a shitty choice.
Within the first ten minutes, you see the main protagonist’s mother die, and how important their bond over the same music was. Then you get tidbits of music Ma sang together with all of us for two more hours, culminating with Ain’t No Mountain High Enough (a song that, two years later, I still can’t hear without tearing up).
My therapist told me that everything gets easier with exposure so, with increasing frequency, I’m revisiting music that I’ve shied away from the last couple of years. I get choked up — sometimes cry like a baby — but do my best to sing along. It’s an interesting experience to say the least.
It’s not so much overwriting the emotional response to my musical memories, it’s more like refining the visceral reaction. Motown is creeping back in my life, and I love it.
Yeah, I’m crying. But I’m also smiling. This feels pretty damned good.
Last night, I went to Walmart to pick up sinus pills, a box of Mrs. Grass soup, elbow noodles to mix into it, and a peanut-buttery snack because I was feeling miserable. It was shaping up as a perfect in-and-out trip until I got to the registers.
I approached the only express lane open, and waited my turn. I was next in line as the cashier caught a peak of my shirt and flashed a goofy grin.
It’s a look I’ve grown accustomed to over the years, as people who listen to the same music as me are relatively scarce. Usually people notice the band on my shirt, and they remark how cool it is to see someone else that likes that band, and I get roped into an awkward exchange. He fit the stereotypical “heavier music guy” look, but the hesitant smile had nothing to do with Hatebreed.
“Your shirt reminds me of a quote,” he said, as he scanned my box of soup with a widening smile. “Well, it’s a line by a character named Poffo, a 245-year-old vampire, in the novel Poffo: The Strange-Ass Garbage Story of a Vampire by Some Crazy Fucking Author.” I don’t recall the specifics, but I’m doing my best here.
My eyes widened because I was so taken aback by the introduction. Give me a fucking break, dude, I’ve got four things for you scan.
I hoped my look of incredulous judgment would embarrass him into silence, but he prattled on. “Poffo is often locked in the basement of her master’s manor because she just doesn’t know how to control her own incomprehensible strength,” he said gleefully, trying to pique my interest.
Instead, I focused on the card reader to dissuade further discussion. Undeterred, he continued, “She’s not necessarily an evil vampire — I mean, she feeds on humans, because, duh, she’s a vampire — but she’s a great person, and she just can’t help it. It’s cool because her sister sneaks small mammals down into the basement to feed her when she’s being punished for decimating her playthings. It’s a fascinating look into the domain of…”
I continued staring at the card reader to follow the scanning process. Here’s the box of elbow noodles and peanut butter bars… Almost there! His words stole focus as the absurdity of what he was saying sank in.
“…constrains her ability to transmogrify into a bat, and the chain around her neck actively combats incantations she would normally invoke to…”
Meanwhile, I haven’t said a single word, and I haven’t looked him in the eye since the first glance as I stood next in line.
“There’s one novel where– Oh, I need your I.D. for the, uh, ‘daytime/night-time sinus tablets’ for some reason.” He looked bewildered as though he didn’t realize there was an alternate use for the medicine.
With great disdain, I grumbled, “Dude, I’m 32. I’m sick. I just want to get home.” There was no fucking way I was going to let this guy know my name or address.
“Oh! You do sound sick,” he replied, as he hit the okay button to let the pills through. He hit the total button, selected credit card as the method of payment, and looked back up at me to continue his story while the receipt pooled in his hand. “Anyway, Poffo befriends an imp that’s able to communicate with the real world, despite being kept afloat in purgatory after a mishap with a woodland–”
“Thanks,” I interjected, reaching for the receipt. I had more than enough. He turned to keep talking to me as I walked away. I heard his voice, but I have no idea what he was saying. As I got to the exit, the door-greeter stood up from his stool and took a step toward me. One corner of his lip curled into a sneering grin as he spoke.
Stop being a social justice warrior by having them all be women!
Why is there another fucking reboot?
I’m a self-proclaimed SJW, and I wear that badge proudly. I’m a firm believer in that things aren’t better because that’s the way they have been traditionally, and exposing the fallacy of that argument is important. Women are half (or slightly over half) of the world’s population, and they’re still often considered second rate to men. I like that Hollywood is doing its part in giving us female leads that aren’t just damsels in distress or love interests.
I like that Melissa McCarthy isn’t in movies to be made fun of. She’s there doing funny things, but it’s never cheap shots at her weight. I like that Fantastic Four — sorry, I mean Fant4stic — is bringing in an African-American to play Johnny Storm. Using a larger cross-section of America in your movies is a great thing, and I’m really excited that there’s a movie about transsexual hookers coming out today that doesn’t need to explain itself. It just drops you in on the action, shows us people with an interesting story and let us fill in the blanks as we see fit.
The Ghostbusters was a great story, and the brand has a history of diversity across different mediums. I mean, shit, how many shows can you name that featured a cast which had a person of color, a woman, and someone in a wheelchair?
I think that’s my major problem with all these reboots. We can’t just go back and remake movies every 20-30 years because technology is better and we can slap better special effects on them — just ask George Lucas — and we shouldn’t reboot franchises to cash grab because they’re known entities to retell the story because we think we have a better angle on it.
Total Recall and Robocop are perfect examples of what makes me weary of Ghostbusters. They were remade with better graphics, but they cut out all of the things that made the originals special. Let’s hold the hand of the audience and tell them what to think instead of leaving the ending open for interpretation. Let’s take all the dark sarcasm about voyeurism in society and instead turn it into a mockery of opinionated talk shows…
If you’re adamant about showing us a new vision of a story, why do you cling to so many of the design cues of the original? We don’t need a casting director to go out and find four people to fit the mold of the guys in the 80’s movie.
“Okay, here’s the ‘normal’ one, the tall black one, the chubby one, and the quirky science nerd. We’re ready to start principal filming!”
At least if these were kids of the original characters, it’d make some sense why they look the way they do. I can see how some people are saying that it feels like a “checkbox, politically correct reboot.” I also think that’s the easy way out, but I can see why they’d reach that conclusion.
I know I shouldn’t judge it before I see it, but I’m suffering from a major movie meltdown that’s been building up. I’m fucking burnt out on all the reboots, origin story movies, and the lowest common denominator action flicks. I want to see something new. I want stories that are interesting.
Maybe Ghostbusters will be charming and pique my interest, but I doubt it. Nearly every re-envisioning I’ve seen of a movie I liked has let me down. I don’t need cheap ploys, like nods to the original, or better effects on the proton beams to draw me in.
I predominantly watch documentaries now, and yes there are junkers out there. At least they’re telling unique stories, not some rewritten movie that occupies the same exact space, mere decades later.
My aunt, Joette, took me to a lot of movies growing up, and there’s a bunch that really stand out to me. Masters of the Universe, Batman, An American Tail: Fievel Goes West, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, Hook, Batman Returns… All of these movies have external memories and feelings attached to them that make those viewings significant to me. Only one movie we went to was the centerpiece of so many more memories: Jurassic Park.
The first time I saw Jurassic Park was opening weekend in 1993, about a week after my 10th birthday. I was a kid fascinated by dinosaurs in elementary school, borrowing the same encyclopedia of dinosaurs from the library so much that they suggested to my parents that they buy me my own copy. I was excited for JP because it was dinosaurs, and my aunt liked Michael Crichton and read the novel. It was the summer movie we were most excited for, and it did not disappoint.
Right after the movie, we took our customary trip to K.B. Toys to pick up a figure related to the film we just saw. After JP, I picked up Dr. Grant and a Velociraptor because, “You can’t have a human and not a dino.” I know now that she was into it as much as I was, but back then I just thought I was getting spoiled as hell.
The next few days, I couldn’t stop talking about the movie. I had Dr. Grant and the Raptor decimate every other toy in my collection. I was obsessed. That next weekend, we went again.
After that trip, there wasn’t a visit to K.B. We went to Border’s instead, where Joette got me my own copy of the book. She kept talking to me about the differences from the book to the movie, and wanted me to experience it the same way. The catch was she didn’t want to give me her copy, because she was revisiting it after she fell in love with the movie.
I read the book in two days, and we saw it again the following weekend. It was the first time we went to the same movie more than once, and after it came out on video, it was on constant rotation on my sleepovers at her house. Hell, 22 years later I still get glued to the screen if I’m looking at the guide and see it on HBO.
I am so excited for Jurassic World tomorrow. It’s a week after my birthday, and I know that Spielberg went through eight different scripts before letting it go to principal shooting. My expectations are high, but deep down I know that 10 year old me won’t let me be disappointed either way.
To claim that I despise my birthday is a misnomer; I’m actually quite grateful that my parents had sex, that zygote me was formed and gestated nearly successfully, and that Dr. Jacobs was able to facilitate an emergency c-section at Albany Med to get me out of Ma, and give my heart its first few pumps when my body didn’t get the fucking hint.
I appreciate all of the complications. I understand how fragile life is, even under great conditions. I grasp how the day I tepidly exited the womb was the day that led to fostering relationships with me later on in their lives, and how they’d want to celebrate that. I get it. What I continually fail to grasp is the annual, uncomfortable discussion, about how it’s my birthday, and I can do whatever I want to — so long as the plans coincide with theirs.
“Sooooooo, I’m coming over and we’re spending the night together?”
The body language and tone of voice says that I’m being coy and they’re in on it. They know exactly what I really want. I’m sure the intentions are pure, and I can see how they would supplant my desires with their vision of a perfect birthday. There’s just never any semblance of acceptance that I’m the exact opposite of that. My perfect birthday is a day like any other, without any hullabaloo.
“But we had fun last year!” You’re right, we played a ton of Mario Kart and it was a good time once I got through my unease about it being my birthday. I’m already bad enough at fulfilling your wishes on your special days. I’d like to not have to stress out about another day that’s supposedly mine to begin with.
It’s not like I haven’t tried. I’ve gone through an awkward surprise party when every instinct was to run away from it. I’ve done small gatherings, and I’ve made big parties to try them out to see if I had weird hiccups about my family being 1,300 miles away. I’ve done decent-sized dinners at fancy restaurants, and I’ve even (very poorly) tolerated smoke detectors going off when I didn’t want people in the house.
Being alone isn’t a punishment, and asking to be left alone isn’t an affront to our relationship. I’m not saying that I don’t appreciate you, or that I don’t love the fact that you care about me.
The way we interact all year long gives me that feeling of love and companionship. I don’t need a culmination of it on one specific day because I was born on it 32 years ago. What I’m comfortable with is just going through the day like the rest of them. If you want to tack on a “Happy birthday, I love you,” with a text about some random thing we’d talk about anyway, go for it.
I’d welcome that above anything else. At some point I’ll have kids and their birthday will have a more special meaning to me than anything else I’ve experienced. Then you can shift excitement onto their days and continue to leave me alone on mine. 🙂