When I was maybe eight years old my mom took me to see Shaun Cassidy with one of my friends. I remember that he jumped onto the stage through a big paper circle (this was the 70s, hello. Pyrotechnics were not yet required.) and we missed it because we were running a little late and my friend had to go to the bathroom and there was much accidental wetting of pants and angst and drama over missing SHAUN CASSIDY JUMPING THROUGH A PAPER CIRCLE OMG.
I only remember one song that the man sang — “Da Doo Run Run” — but that wasn’t the point. I went crazy for him and for Andy Gibb too, at the time — their feathered hair, obscenely tight-fitting pants and just general all-around whitebread hotness was the perfect fit for someone who didn’t yet know what to do with any of the above.
Which brings me to Justin Bieber, to whom so many roads seem to lead these days, yes? I know I’ve been on a bit of a Bieber kick lately. I’ve been a little harsh. I may be obsessing about it a little much about his antics for someone who has heard him sing one song which I have promptly forgotten. And I’ve been pretty judgey, yes, demanding some kind of justification for the level of apeshit crazy that young girls the world over seem to be achieving because of him.
And maybe what I’m really wrestling with is **whispers** could that have been me?
Short answer? Sure. First of all, I seemingly can’t stop talking about the kid, cloaked as my observations are in “WTF? Why is he so totally popular?”
And also, it’s not like I haven’t been where these obsessive teenagers are. After Andy Gibb sadly died and Shaun Cassidy went off to do I know not what, I graduated to screaming my head off for Duran Duran. If those other dudes were pop star dating, this was new wave real love. I wrote short stories about my eventual married life with John Taylor on the exotic island where their videos were filmed. My walls were completely covered with their posters and I had several of their buttons all over my uniform kilt.
I know. Try to contain your jealousy at the hotness that was me.
The reactions were likely irrational to the outside observer, I’m sure, but to me they made perfect sense. I know my parents shook their heads more than once when they saw me standing on my bed to tape posters to my ceiling. But to me, screaming and obsessing about these dudes, owning every single one of their singles and albums and cassettes was the only way to go. And as a teenager, developing an elaborate fantasy of marrying I man I’d never met, who I knew only through his music and interviews and videos, was surprisingly, frighteningly easy.
I could do without the Justin Bieber memoir plan, sure. I think the fact that a 3D biopic starring him is in the works is silly. As I concurrently contribute to the gajillion words and pictures that are published
And it really doesn’t matter if I get the greatness that these kids think is Justin Bieber, because not a single one of them cares if I do or don’t. I can crack on his hair or his gang signs all day long, but I should probably just shut my big mouth because I am not the intended audience. I chose my idols once upon a time, and now it’s their screaming, running, teenaged turn.
. . . . .
Laurie still loses her mind at Duran Duran concerts.