I Don’t watch the news, I certainly don’t watch Nancy Grace, and the closest I get to reading the newspaper is the horoscopes slotted into every local-ish publication I stumble upon. What I do do, is turn on the BBC channel and listen to the intro for the world news report. It has a very comforting familiar tune, and as soon as the boop boop boop stops I change the channel. I’d like to get it on loop. My point is, I’m not up on world current events . . . . at all.
I am however understanding what all the fuss around True Blood is. I mean, I get it. I get it because I went through an eerily similar phase back in the 90’s. Back when Brad Pitt, Gary Oldman, and Tom Cruise materialized in theaters. Actually it was even before then. It was Ann Rice (the books), it was Poppy Z. Brite. Friends, If you like Vampire erotica, (and by the constant absence of True Blood at every Rogers and Blockbuster video in a 10 mile radius for the past 3 weeks, I think you do.) look up Poppy Z. Brite’s earlier stuff, I admit, it borders on violently raunchy, and I only got though two of her books. Having preached all that, I myself have not read the Sookie Stackhouse series. Color me embarrassed.
I’m not even going to touch on the pre-pubescent vampire series that’s made it to the big screen. But it makes me wonder? Do vampires go in and out of style like shoulder pads? (not a welcome resurgence by the way) I’ve noticed my rejuvenated interest in the blood thirsty has coincided neatly with my love of The Cult. Yes, I love them. Back in ‘94 I went through my Ian Astbury/vampire stage. In art school I decided it was entirely appropriate to primarily paint large canvases depicting a vampire who resembled rather closely the lead singer of The Cult. Some times he’d be “fangs out” sometimes, a little more demure (because that’s a typical vampire trait) maybe I should say mysterious. After that got tiresome, and I have no doubt that it did, I began including renditions of a delectable looking blonde with heaving cleavage to these magnificent works of art. Good grief. Seriously, it’s embarrassing.
I don’t know what’s going on right now, but I am rather successfully reliving my youth. The Cult played last week about an hour outside of the city. Christ knows why? They played in what can only be described as a barn. A big barn, yes. But a barn none the less. A barn filled to the brim with red-necks. Age-ed red-necks, men and women. Hair, bad-taste and too many beers. Why on earth was The Cult playing in the middle of nowhere? Why were they playing in a venue where in 3 weeks time the country folk in the surrounding area would be displaying their prize squashes and heifers? WHY!!!??? It doesn’t matter I suppose. It doesn’t matter because I went t see them anyway. I went to get a damn t-shirt and to catch Ian Astbury’s attention with my smoldering gaze. I went with my best friend, because we, the two of us are fans. The last time we saw The Cult was Tuesday February 14th Valentines Day 1995. It was the first snow, and I didn’t have a jacket. Not that I needed a jacket inside The PNE Forum, no, I had my enormous backpack strapped to my front.. That kept me pretty effing warm.
I’ve told my Cult story from last week so many times, that maybe I’ll save it for another time. Just remind me to tell you about the fire extinguisher incident, two dreadful and insulting pick-up lines and the fact that a lead singer in his late 40’s remains sexy, despite love handles and ill fitting sweatshirt.
I’m just happy that I feel young again. Like the life force of a vampire coursing through my veins, this renewed obsession for my favorite band and it’s delightful partnering with a child-hood passion has been rather invigorating. All I need now is a trip to Paris and a wander through the Père Lachaise Cemetery and the transformation to age 21 will be complete. Delightful.