So, my politically incorrect (and often quietly smirked at) excuse in awkward social situations when I’ve just said something true and highly suspect is simply that I am ‘artistic, not autistic…but whose counting?’
Hello world or the accidental misguided over googling viewer that stumbled across my minuscule piece of the World Wide Web, this is the beginning of the end of the world as you’ve known it (but, admit, you already suspect it). In the words of Douglas Adam’s: “DON’T PANIC!” Yep, and it’s okay as long as you know where your towel is. If you get that reference, congratulations, you’ll be right at home here.
Moving right along, I would be the ‘The End is Nigh’ sign guy or a deranged chic dressed in a chicken costume pointing at that sky squawking, “The sky is falling! The sky is falling!” But it’s been done and I ain’t no poser.
Instead, I am a producer; therefore, I will take a bunch of already brilliant thoughts and references and make a make a mish-mash of cross referenced, fun pun pie. I am a product of my times and stand stubbornly still, holding my trophy, declaring: Yes, I will be the President one day (well, at least the dude behind the curtain). Let me explain.
I am just some 36 year old person who grew up when times were simpler. I’m talking about a time when Spicoli made ‘dude’ a household word, when kids roamed adult-free until the street lights came on equipped with a false confidence in the compelling mental weapon “don’t talk to strangers”.
If you aren’t familiar, let me briefly elaborate. This was that magical time in American history before 24-hour news, when the sound of big wheels tearing down streets with blind corners and plastic semi-automatic machine guns operated by pint-sized 9-year old G.I. Joes filled the streets and didn’t invoke police action or terrorism investigations. A time when gluten and high fructose corn syrup were the foundation ingredients of every American 5-food-group compliant meal. A time even when an annual network television airing of ‘The Secret of Nimh’ was a major coup for the big wheeling bandits that actually survived the blind corners.
Yes, my friends, I am am taking about the 80’s and 90’s. Your storyteller is a ‘deranged’ witness of this era. Yes, I’m a trained, unlicensed, over-stimulated under-employed, over-educated, over-qualified artist-turned-lawyer with the absurd and hilariously blood curdlingly large student loan debts to prove it. I am also a proud member of that awkward generation between Generation X and the Millennials (also referred to as Generation Y….or was it ‘Why’?). Let’s shift gears, Dickens-style.
I was born in the fall of 1979 and grew up a highly conscious child in the 80’s, learning how to be a John Hugh’s model teen, big hair, hot pink scrunchies and self-esteem issues to keep us all amused for at least a day. I spent years studying this artistic social experiment later dubbed the ‘Brat Pack’, only to find that in 7th grade, my vision of life as a teen was already obsolete, much like the iPhone after a year and, wait, my education?!! I may be on to something here…
My attention span has shifted to ‘real work’, so I must go and will return soon. Until then, reminisce of the first time you tried to ride a skateboard and face-planted in the pavement…. I want details!
© Mary Strayhorne ALL RIGHTS RESERVED