On the surface, this may seem like a run of the mill event, but hidden beneath the surface is a story of destiny flouted, genetic predisposition resisted, history not repeated.
We will begin at the beginning.
My father did not know who the Beatles were until 1967. While browsing the $3 bin of a record store in Saratoga recently, he called out to my sister and I - "Do you know this band? I think they're Dutch!" He was holding an ABBA CD.
Things don't boil down so easily on my mother's side. Let's just say that 1)she grew up in small town Ohio 2)her father was a concert pianist and a snob, a genius snob, but a snob nonetheless and 3)she's just kind of a shy dork.
So when one thing led to another and my sister and I showed up on the scene, we were raised on classical music and PBS. I did not listen to Michael Jackson or the New Kids On the Block. I would very occasionally sneak some Punky Brewster by asking to watch the McNeal Lehrer News Hour (frequently, I would actually just watch the news.) And to this day I don't really know what Fraggle Rock is. (There were puppets involved, right?)
In 2nd grade, I made the decision that I needed to update myself. I needed to listen to music more current, more hip, something written after 1900. So I started listening to Oldies 103.3 FM. This did not improve matters much.
I think you get the idea.
Let's fast forward to college, shall we? I went to a small, liberal arts college in the midwest. When I arrived, I did not know what a hipster was. I quickly learned the proper level of intimidation, envy and scorn that should be shown towards those cool enough to sneer at you while wearing a granny dress. Because my school was teaming with them. We also had a great concert scene - Sufjan Stevens, Cat Power, Peaches and a bunch of other ones who people were excited about but whose names I've forgotten. I've forgotten because I didn't go to any of the concerts. Because I was in rehearsal. And clueless.
Jumping ahead again to graduation. I had a BA in theater and much better taste in music than when I'd arrived (thanks to a series of savvy boyfriends and roommates.) I had spent 4 years rubbing elbows with a bunch of displaced New Yorkers, which always helps raise your pop-culture awareness. But the fact that the rubbing had occurred in small town Ohio put a damper on things.
I was hopeless at movie trivia, I did not own a pair of converse and I had never drunk a 40. I was still poptarded.
So where did I decide to move? Brooklyn. Who did I somehow end up dating? A recent graduate of a top local art school who'd studied Industrial Design. Someone who grew up in Detroit and knew about things like beat matching, (it's something DJs do?) sneaker culture, and the New York art scene. Someone who was cool. Someone who was a girl!?
So that brings us to the present. I live in Brooklyn with my girlfriend, I go to parties with DJ's, I have a record player, I know about things before they've happened (let alone before they've happened 5 years ago) and I keep track of internet trends.
The next logical step? A blog. Not that I expect that anyone will read it. Not that I expect that I will post regularly. Not that I expect my writing to be the pithy, current and witty stuff of the best blogs I read. But it will be out there. If the mood strikes me, I can blog. I can sit in my Brooklyn apartment with a glass of red wine purchased at a little independent store, listening to the mix my girlfriend made, bobbing my head to the beat of old school hiphop and blog.
I am still a dork. I am still pretty poptarded. But at least I have a blog. And considering my heritage and history, I think I've beaten the odds.
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