Breakfast today was shit as usual, but the potatoes were downright haunted.
Met some very interesting Rick Springfield superfans last night, which I’ll devote a much larger post to, or possibly even a book, later, but suffice it to say, they get it. They get why Rick is the fucking shit, and I don’t feel so alone now. I guess we all sense the same thing.
The only way I could explain it is that Rick Springfield is just touched. He’s got that golden glow. He’s just one of the lucky ones who suck just as much as everyone else, but who can’t do any wrong.
And what’s so cool (poetically cool) is he hates that about himself, which makes him just that much more endearing, and poetically sad. There’s a fucking rad dignity about that guy, he’s so honest with himself that in the end at least he’s aware of his problems. Believe me, I can fucking relate to some of the stuff he goes through, but that’s too much to explicate in a blog.
Rick got caught in a recursive loop of the lovable “Oh sorry me” thing that spiraled out of control somewhere around the early seventies. He’s utterly forgivable because he just means well, does well, and is really good to people. His best songs are tight as fuck. They’re as good as Stones songs, but they’re so much more catchy, which I think is how the man caught on.
And he looks good, and he drives women crazy. Believe me. He has them in the palm of his hand. I had never seen sexual energy in a show anywhere NEAR like what goes on at a Rick show. It’s this palpable sense that every woman in the crowd is…
I’ll not be lewd, but you get the point. He’s got the golden glow. He’s the guy women want to do, and the guy dudes wish they were.
I wished I was Rick Springfield when I was a kid. Now I am glad I am me, because I am young, and I have the chance to learn from the mistakes older folks like Rick learned for himself. And I’m just a pretty cool fella in my own right too. So now for me it’s more of a high-five type fandom with Mr. Springfield. I’m proud of him, he’s one of the few that made it without being a poor-sport condescending prick once he finally made it to Boardwalk. That’s a rare combo.
And I’m a music-obsessed completest fool, and being into Rick Springfield gives me something innocent and rad that I can enjoy for myself more than an obscure metal band or an experimental occult ska group, because no one wants to step to something as normal as Rick Springfield. It’s just too uncool. And judging by the character of this trip, the Rick Springfield cruise is the most uncool place on fucking earth.
After my “Pass The Dutchie” freakout two days ago, Jordan and I decided to take a break from playing it for essentially medical reasons. The song actually triggered physiological changes in me. Shallow breathing, panic, dilated pupils, muscle tension.
But now we’re back up in the cut.
I missed “Pass The Dutchie” yesterday. It was like longing for someone you have a crush on but hate yourself for it because they are a fucking asshole. But you need them. You know?
Fuck. It just feels so good. Been jamming it this morning. Feels so good. Like chocolate cake and a cigarette. Spine tingling.
I don’t want anything else. I lose track of time. It’s like my duty to hear this song all the time.
I feel like it’s my job. The same relationship, I feel guilty when I’ve been slacking on my “Pass The Dutchie” listening.
I mean, it will make me puke, too, don’t even get me wrong. I want to fucking ignore this song exists, but it does, I’m stuck with it. I’m on a boat and it feels so good and so bad…. Pass The Fucking Dutchie… I’m blissing out…
You get the picture. It’s like, “absence makes the heart grow fonder”. Fuck yeah it does.
I’m just planning on laying in my bed for a couple hours, and letting the music wash over me.
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