I would have preferred to be hanging out with girls, acclimating to the whirlpool of emotions which turns a hot tub into a toilet bowl. It was summer. I was bored. I needed someone to move through labyrinths towards, and if she were just a concept that was okay.
We stood there, this stranger and I, while I held a spatula in my hand and Explosions in the Sky played in the background. It was like Friday Night Lights had transitioned into soft porn. “Oh-my-God-I’m-so-sorry,” the man said, slamming the door before I even had a chance to cover my groin with the spatula.
Let’s be honest, Jenny Lewis was the best personal Jesus a queer indie boy could ever ask for. With her adorable vintage style and honey-soaked vocals, she was someone the girls and gays could look up to for advice and inspiration.
See, I’ve got a theory, and it’s that we’re all possessed by this need to be special, to be different – to matter so much to the person we choose to be with that we eclipse all that came before and all who will come after.
Some feel nostalgia for high school, for college, for camps, for first loves or second houses or third spouses. Some wistfully want to go back to an era of protest and meaningful discourse, like the 1960s. And some even feel nostalgia for eras that haven’t ever existed—The Lord of the Rings is a good example.