September 10, 2004


Last night, I went to see Sleep Station at a club with a fake tree and a faux-Italian mezzanine akin to an Olive Garden lobby RIGHT THERE IN THE MIDDLE OF THE CLUB. It was as if it had been trucked in from the prom night of my dreams, replete with tiny lite stars a-twinkle. You could hear the trickle of the fountain 'tween Sleep Station's prole New Jersey magic-rat lilts.

I spent the rest of my show-going in hawkeyed observation of Limbeck's groupie-base. Twelve people at the show, three of them were youngish women giggling too loud at the wry tour stand-up routines from the youngish men of Limbeck at their sides. "Really?! Wow.... was their unilateral response, followed by a crossing and uncrossing of their legs, or a deep drag off a white filtered cigarette smiling with a glossy mouth that looked like a wound. The Limbeck guys I have met before, Challenger played a show with them in Portland, where they sold freshly-signed & autographed posters for $3 after their set and cockstrutted around they exact way they instruct you in the Young Band Dude's Handbook (2004 Emo Update edition). I did not grace them with reacquaintance. The Limbeck men spoke of the travails of the road, punchlines rolling out from under ironic 'staches, tween swipes off their longnecks. Then, in the most realized bit of sexual guile/groupie theatre ever performed, one girl reaches into her handbag, pulls out her birth control pills, pops "Thursday" and then meets the eyes of the band dude she's cozied with, non-chalant, like it was a communion wafer.

I was not sure whether to cry or to genuflect at her feet.

This morning, I woke up, laid in bed talking to my little sister, who as of this writing is over on campus working her charm, white chicklet teeth and blonde main in hopes of pledging the sorority of her choice. I watched her as she applied her make up in the sunlight. I was thralled in the witness of the act of real interior landscaping, this personal girl-ritual that is fairly foreign to me.
"What do that do?"
"It's moisterizer."
"Why aren't you rubbing it in much?"
"Because I need it to moisterize extra, my chin is dry."
"What's that?"
"It's for my zits. I break out if I stop using it."
"Is that foundation?"
"Why don't you use one that's the same color as your skin?"
"Because then I look like a dead zombie."
"Is that normal powder or is that blush?"
And so on.

My sister looks like the kind of girl who would have been on the cover of Seventeen Magazine in 1975. Classic blonde hair and blue eyes combo. She is also smart and very funny. She wears heels every time she leaves the house and walks like a confident little fawn. Her friends tell her they do not know how she does it -- are awed by her, because when they go to parties, when they go out with friends, she does not dumb herself down when talking to boys . Her girlfriends have every advantage in the world, but do not have the slightest sense of permission to be themselves amidst the patriarchal DMZ of keg parties.

Thusly, in conclusion: Until we destroy the patriarchy, no one is truly free.

Posted by Jessica at September 10, 2004 07:18 PM | TrackBack