Pardon My French

Go ahead and call me a music elitist.
Because honestly, that’s probably what I’m going to sound like to everyone as I attempt to explain why I feel that this new biopic about The Runaways isn’t a great idea.

The Runaways, a “queens of noise” 1970’s glam rock band that began Joan Jett’s rise to fame is one of those bands whose vinyl is lost in the generation gap that divides us from our parents–Vinyl that most of us (young 20-somethings) never heard, never knew anything about and realistically never were expected to discover (Because they were buried in some stack behind the sticker covered door of a downtown record store or perhaps somewhere inside of a cob web covered box in the attic.)

But, some of us did discover it. Some of us were even lucky enough to be raised on the stuff. It’s a feeling and a movement that all can relate to: the homemade fashion, vamp make-up, smoking, swearing, spitting, guitar thrashing angry rebellion–raw Rock ‘N Roll speaks to every angsty teenager, no matter the decade.

That’s why you must understand that Rock for all mankind is not the movement that I have the issue with. It’s the exploitation of it all that bothers me.

The film “The Runaways” based on the autobiography of singer Cherie Currie, received Joan Jett’s stamp of approval, who even went on to produce it. But, don’t let that fool you. This film isn’t some kind of recommendation for a full band revival.

It’s just one big commercial.

The billboards and posters seemed to pop up overnight in Los Angeles, and the more I found myself staring at them, the more clear it became.

For starters, the film has cast tween idols Dakota Fanning as Cherie Currie and Kristen Stewart as Joan Jett–Clearly, the movie isn’t made for the real fans of the music. It’s only about selling tickets.

The emphasis is on their clothing, rather than on the story of the musical experience or a chronicling of what these woman accomplished. It’s the thrift store treasures, homemade 70s Glam Rock fashion– leather leggings, ripped tees, combat boots, light denim, big aviator sunglasses—stuff that’s now being sold for top dollar in hipster chic clothing stores like American Apparel and Urban Outfitters. Stuff that people may magically be inspired to go buy after watching the movie.

(Mark my words: every 13-year-old girl in America will have a shag hair cut by summer time.)

It’s not just this movie that I have an issue with. It’s the million variations of the Rock Band and Guitar Hero video games and the store Hot Topic.

In the last few years, there boomed this movement to sort of “educate” the younger generations about Rock ‘n Roll for the small fee of $140 for the rock band set (drums, microphone, guitar, etc), $1.99 per iTunes download or $25 for every Ramones/Rolling Stones/Led Zeppelin/Etc. T-shirt.

My theory? In the time of internet radio and MP3’s, there’s so many different genres and artists, so much information on the web that it’s pretty much guaranteed that we’re all listening to different things. We’re not united by sharing these bits of culture, by “owning them.” Generation Y is a nostalgic group, buying our “My Little Pony” and Back to “The Future T-shirts”, Nintendo controller belt buckles and “Teenaged Mutant Ninja Turtles” on DVD– I can see how it would be possible to look to another time to find some overall identity.

I get that making money is at the core of everything. Even the music itself is about making money, selling albums, booking tours–for the record companies, anyway. But, what about that experience of the music–How it makes you feel? What it inspires? And what of the songs that never die? The vinyl you spin even years after everyone and their grandma owns an iPod? You can’t put a price tag on that.

These movies and video games make the whole rock experience feel programmed and plastic, a means for the big guy to make a buck–and that’s kind of ruining it for me.

Once my mother made a drive thru employee cry.

I was 6 or 7 years old and my mom had had a pretty awful day. A home cooked meal was out of the question, McDonalds was close and so that was it. This wasn’t too unusual so we knew the drill–Do what she asked of us, shut up, don’t spill French fries all over the car and we were in good shape. Even back then I was confident that it was occasions like these that inspired the creation of fast food chains all together.
I remember mom staring blankly at the largest of the three cups in the paper tray that the girl in the window had just passed through the driver’s side window. “What is this?” Only, it wasn’t a question because she had no intention of waiting for an answer.

“I asked for a Diet Coke with NO ice. You know. WITHOUT ice.”

The McDonalds employee apologized and reached her arm through the window to take back the tray, to correct the problem. But my mother wasn’t done. Clearly this girl’s absent minded reflex to fill the cup with ice, just like filled all of the other cups all day long, was a personal attack. Actual shouting at this person, name calling took place for over a minute before my mother handed back the cup. Tears streamed down her face as my sister and I slumped in the backseat as though we were trying to become become smaller somehow, if only to disappear. Even as a 1st grader, I realized that this was not normal and that people should never be treated this way. Consequently, I’ve always been extra nice, genuine to those working in the food industry and retail. Now that I work retail, I wish the same could be said for all people.

Phil once said something to me along the lines of “everyone should spend some time working retail at least once in their life.” I really couldn’t agree more. It humbles you, teaches you to appreciate things more and it helps you to realize things about humanity. Lately, these realizations haven’t been the most uplifting. For starters, the holidays really do bring out the worst in people. This year Thanksgiving wasn’t so much about giving thanks and goodwill. People were cranky and they just wanted their groceries as quickly as possible. During many of these individual pursuits for turkey, gravy or whatever, I was firmly grabbed by the wrist at the register because one man “didn’t want his bag in a cart,” rammed with a cart multiple times in the shin (When my eyes welled up with tears the third time I was hit in the exact same place, one woman muttered ‘Oh, sorry’ and continued throwing groceries on the check out counter) and I was shouted at. It was like I wasn’t even a person. Meanwhile, the Christmas music played on.

I’m also irritated by how predictable people are. I have the same conversation hundreds of times per day.

Me: “Hi. How are you?”
Customer: “Good. How are you? (not interested in reply as they throw their stuff on the counter.)
**In case of sunshine/warm temperatures**
Customer: “Weather’s really great today!”
**In case of rain/cold temperatures**
Customer: “Really wish the weather was better like last week. Last week was great.

**In case they brought their own reusable bags**
Me: “Would you like to enter our drawing since you brought your own bags?”
Customer: “Sure, even though I never win.” or “Gotta win one of these times.” *fake laughter*
**In case they didn’t bring their own reusuable bags**
Customer (always makes sure to tell me): “Oh, I forgot my bags.”

**In case something won’t scan and I have to manually type it in**
Customer: “Oh, well then it’s free” *fake laughter or plastic, obnoxious smile*

Customer: “Is this pinpad new?”
Me: “Yes. We got them about two months ago.”

**In case customer’s total is less than $25**
Customer: “Oh. I don’t need to sign?”
Me: “Nope. Not if it’s less than $25.”

Why always with the fake laughter, guys? It’s not funny so why even pretend to laugh? And the fake smiles? That didn’t even look real! If it’s an effort to make me feel more comfortable with you, you just struck out. I’d rather you be genuine. Just be you. And when you resort to small talk, try something other than the weather. Try global events or the song playing over the intercom or a movie you caught over the weekend. Weather discussions are just plain weak and I’ve held the philosophy to avoid them for as long as I can remember. I will consciously try to start conversations about other subjects and people become thrown off, some even noticebly irritated by this. They want conversation so they can do their fake laughs, but people are comfortable with weather so that’s all they want to discuss.

This entry may read extremely whiny. I know a job’s a job and fake smiling is all a part of the one I got. It’s just hard. Lately, I’ve been having a pretty bad case of the blues. I realized today it’s because I’ve worked five days in a row the same shift each day–2:30-11 p.m. Each day has been identical and mundane. My job’s not a creative one with my means of expressing myself limited to my shoes and scarf, and it’s upsetting. I just keep telling myself I’m a step closer to a “real” job. You know, the kind that requires that degree I earned.

Monday, October 19, exactly a week from today, looms like a credit card payment. I just don’t feel for my birthday the way I used to.

When I turned 6, I felt like Princess Cinderalla in my brand new party dress, blindfolded and waving a long stick at a paper mache’ Dalmation, my entire first grade class behind me. A few Barbie dolls following a harmonized round of the Happy Birthday song over an inflamed ice cream cake and I was the happiest little girl you’ve ever seen. Those first ten years of life were so simple and every Oct. 19 was magical. Unfortunately, like most things related to childhood, birthdays after the age of 10 just lost their sparkle.

Birthdays are put on a pedestal in our culture. You must remember every single person’s special day, wish them well by phone or interwebs and if they’re a close friend or relative, present them with a gift to commemorate the occasion of growing older. If you don’t, at a minimum: feelings will be hurt. People are sometimes resentful and hold a grudge for mere absentmindedness. You are a terrible human being if you forget a birthday. This makes the whole ritual of a birthday mandatory, repetitive to a point where some participants just seem to be programmed autopilot. It all just feels so forced sometimes. It sometimes feels impersonal, too. People on Facebook, dangling somewhere between stranger and friend, send their congratulatory greetings for your existence even if they rarely talk to you at any other point in the year.

I know I sound like an ungrateful ingrate. I promise, I’m not ungrateful. I’m so happy that I have people who love me enough to remember the anniversary that mom popped me out. And really, I don’t mind helping other people celebrate THEIR special days. All of this is more about disliking being the center of attention and maybe I’m finally over hearing the same tired birthday song.

Every year, as the day fast approaches, I start to feel anxious and this year, it’s especially bad. I feel like a timer has been set and I have to hurry up and accomplish something profound in my life. “It’s Oct. 19 again, Caitlin. Get livin’ or get dyin’.”
These feelings are probably the of my graduation in May combined with recent life changes– I’ve been asked a lot of questions about myself lately. Almost all of them relate to what I’m doing with my life.

I started two new jobs recently: general crew member at Trader Joe’s on Walton in Rochester Hills and barista at Biggby Coffee and 21 & Hayes in Shelby Township. Both jobs are a lot of fun and I work with a lot of really nice people who already seem to care a lot about me. I’m a little sad, though, because I already know what kind of lifelong work I’d like to commit myself to and even have the credentials to do so– I just haven’t found a place to go. It’s not necessarily the same kind of labor of love I’ve always dreamt of, but I do need some money if I’d like to move out West with Phil.

What kills me is when I have to talk with people about this temporary lapse. Strangers in line while I’m working cash register will ask me “Where do you go to school?” Other times, I’ll run into people I haven’t seen in a long time, many who seem to be doing well for themselves. I automatically feel that I have to explain myself and this is wearing on me a bit. Between jobs, I’m just trying to write when I can.

In a microblogging sphere of more than I could ever count, I always take a moment to reflect when I receive notification that some new stranger has begun to follow me. I’ve even become more exclusive over time in deciding whose lives I’d actually like to watch unfold under the microscope. That’s why it’s a little strange that I don’t remember when I started following WritingHannah.
I know little of her, just that until yesterday, she was a 22-year-old working on her first book. But yesterday, she was officially done. The book was put on shelves at bookstores.
It’s just more affirmation that my time to write my story is now.

Though he’s said it only once of twice, Phil’s words on our generations’ love of (need for) nostalgia has stuck with me. I, like millions of other American 20-somethings, am a by-product of all that I watched, listened to and played with as a kid.
I saw John Fogerty in concert the other night, an experience that while entertaining, I feel was important. If my childhood theoretically had a playlist, CCR would come up a lot on shuffle.

Fogerty was the kick off to a bunch of other shows I’ll be going to this summer:

Today– Nine Inch Nails at DTE
July 14– Green Day at The Palace
July 26– Incubus at DTE
August 16– AC/DC at The Palace

Maria made this painting for me, an inspiration from some photos of when I was little. Not only is it beautiful, it’s accurate- It captures the essence of my childhood so spot on.

My sister and I lived in an imaginary world, inside a playhouse my dad made for us from a crate. It was black and white, had a functioning door bell and a red door. With a backpack full of my own makeshift spy gear and a notebook, it was there where I first began to document the way I saw the world.