Tuesday, April 08, 2003

Aw, Rats!



I fucking lost my journal today. Somewhere in public. That is bad. At least my whole name wasn't written anywhere in there, nor anyone else's, I think. I should not take my journal outside. Duh. That's just begging the cosmos to make mischief. My only solace is that the chances of anyone I know finding it are slim as hell.



It's one of those nights. Really hot and dry and I'm at sixes and sevens. (What does that mean again?) Maybe I'm at eights and nines. Just all outta sorts with 97 things to worry about and 47 deadlines I haven't started. One of 'ems an interview with Christina Aguilera. I interviewed her Friday night. We were drinking red wine but I had some whiskey beforehand and 20 minutes into the interview I realize I'm wasted. Losing my train of thought so she has to back up and remind me what we were talking about. In a way it was good because I blew all appearances of superstar ass-kissing and was able to ask a couple questions that would've been awkward sober. Stuff like, why do you objectify yourself and whatnot. Actually she used the word objectify first.



She's got a real thick gloss to her, like Sally Hansen's Hard As Nails: shiny and tough. There's a couple good things about her. One, she's not skinny anymore, thank God. She talked some trash about Pink out of the blue and that was weird. Also she's getting very into funding shelters for battered women, and domestic violence is her big deal issue now. She said the happiest moment of her life was her first Christmas morning after her dad left, when she was seven, living with her mom and grandma. She asked me what mine was and I told her it was this one New Year's Eve when I fell in love. She's all, that's amazing, I've never had a good New Years.



It's funny how most everybody has shitty New Year's Eves, even pop icons. You always imagine on new years what goes on at the big Hollywood parties with the glamour pusses, what sort of supernatural level of fun they must be able to access.



That particular year I was at one of those types of exclusive Hollywood parties with this fellow, and it was OK. But then we left and went back to his friends' apartment, a one-bedroom where three guys were living and he slept on the couch. All our friends hung around in the candy-colored glow of Christmas lights and listened to music and talked and drank. We had known each other for ten years or more at that point, all of us, but the history wasn't a weight around our ankles; it was a kind of emotional lubricant. I didn't have to explain myself to anyone and I didn't have to live up to past behaviors or anything. It was old and new at the same time.



The guy played psychic DJ with a series of songs that blew my mind. All of them were beloved, often "bad" pop from my childhood, stuff we'd never even talked about: "State of Shock" by Mick and Michael; "Xanadu," "Karma Chameleon," "Sowing the Seeds of Love," "Senses Working Overtime." I felt liberated once again by the ecstasy of pop and its eternal, valiant efforts to locate and magnify the sensation of joy.



All right, goodnight. I'm going to put my eights and nines in a row and see what they add up to!



kate

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