......finding a new home for lutefisk lovers.

(ok we don't love it. or even like it. but we're supposed to.)

22 May 2012

I Am Not Going to Write About Robin Gibb

I'm just not.   Because this isn't a blog about pop culture icons who die unexpectedly;  lately, this has felt like an obituary site for the stars of my childhood.  And I've just spent too much time waxing poetic on the crushes they inspired or the grooves they invented or the walls they graced.   If someone is famous in the way that they appear in posters in Tiger Beat magazine,  you know that legions of former tweens will be sad when they die.   And even though I thought Robin Gibb was the strangest looking human being I had ever seen,  I still put his poster on my 1978 bedroom wall  -  after Barry and before Maurice  -  because there was no doubt in my mind that it took 3 brothers to make the nation understand the extent to which they should be dancing.   Or stayin' alive.   Or jive talkin'.

Last year,  I saw that the "Australian Bee Gees,"  or fake Bee Gees, were coming to Boston.   And at first I was super excited.   And then I got really lonely.

Because I realized that I hadn't been here long enough for people to know my cheeky side;  I had no cheeky posse.  In this place that takes itself very seriously,  there's a lot of me that stays hidden for fear of scaring people away.   And trust me,  even when I think I'm hiding the crazy parts,  I'm still scaring people away with all my front-door-knocking and all my smiling and all my greeting of people when I enter a room.   It weirds people out.   Can you imagine if I approached one of the serious moms at school and said  "Hey!   Do you want to go see the fake Bee Gees with me?!"   First she'd be like  "I've only known you for a year.  I'm not even ready to make eye contact with you yet."   And then she'd be like  "And disco is dead.   I can't believe you didn't know that."

There comes a time when you need to shake it like you just don't care.   And to do that, you need to put away your serious face and excavate your inner disco queen.   You need to go in your way-back machine and reclaim her.   I, unlike most people, never forsook my inner disco queen.   NEVER.   She has always been with me.   So which one of those serious people was going to go to the fake Bee Gees with me?

The answer is zero.   A big fat arrow pointing to the fact that I had no posse.   Which is why the fake Bee Gees coming to town made me sad.

I'm not going to write about Robin Gibb on this blog that is not an obituary site, dammit.   Instead, I offer you this picture.   An homage to my inner disco queen:

.......complete with a hole in the crotch of the suntan colored l'eggs.

No comments: