A recent post by a certain Inconnu has me all 80's music nostalgic now. Nothing is better for the soul than really good 80's music - I don't care what Deepak effing Chopra says. A few recent iTunes gems:
One of Our Submarines - Thomas Dolby
Erotic City - Prince
Forever Young - Alphaville
Do Me! - Bel Biv Devoe (Poison shortly to follow)
I'm Coming Out - Diana Ross (seriously, did people get it? I was too young to remember)
And the Beat Goes On - The Whispers
Eye in the Sky - Alan Parsons Project
Sigh. iTunes' selection isn't half bad. I've purchased a lot of 70's and 90's music, too, but nothing gives me that warm feeling like 80's music. It's like my Dad and the 50's, I guess - he heard that stuff as a kid, and he hates it that no local station plays 50's stuff anymore (I LOVE "The River," but they've eliminated 50's songs from their rotation). One of the first songs I bought from iTunes was Come Go With Me by the Del Vikings b/c I remember my Dad always playing that when I was little - he'd sing along to it and you could see him smile and go to another place. I should get him one of those 50's and 60's compilations they sell on 3-hour-long infomercials, but I think it would drive my Mom batshit crazy.
At the moment, I'm having some really frustrating back problems. I was hoping it would clear up in a cpl of days, but now it's all coming back to me. When this happens (and it hasn't in 10 YEARS), I have to dope up on muscle relaxers, anti-inflammatories, and alternate a hot, damp heating pad for about a week. I probably shouldn't be up typing this, but when you've been bored silly stacking pills, trying to come up with playlists in your head that encompass all the songs you have that are about or imply suicide (all I could come up with were Head Over Heels, Mad World, and Alone Again, Naturally), and listening to all the books on cd you own, things get a little...bleak.
I can't read from a flat-on-my-back position. It's probably just as well, because I'm living and breathing Fortsytes. I'm on the third novel from The Forsyte Saga, and it's kind of winding down. The first novel A Man of Property was the best by far. But I tend to get a little too into it - I get Forsytes in my head for days on end, and I think it makes me brood, so I'm only reading the novels on the weekends.
I'm reading another book about the British upper class system and art scene, but this one's a little different... it's Red Carpets and Other Banana Skins - Rupert Everett's autobiography. He's...different than I imagined him. In a good way. He's writing from the perspective of a middle-aged man looking back on his drug-fueled, glamorous, narcissistic youth, and he's pretty self-effacing about it. It keeps the book from being annoying and snotty. It's also deliciously bitchy, and surprisingly matter-of-fact, which I like. Not terribly scandalous, either, but then, I haven't gotten to his Hollywood Years yet. So far, he's had an affair with Ian McKellan, and has lots of flings and orgies with fellow cast-members from the London theatre scene of the 80's. Kind of what you'd expect from Rupert Everett.
I should probably get back to my drugs and heating pad...it's starting to hurt already.
Random quote I read on someone's car today: "Those who would sacrifice freedom for temporary security deserve neither." Ben Franklin
