I've had plenty of girlcrushes starting back in my youth with Debbie Gibson and Tiffany. Obvious dreams of hot pink sweatshirts, teased hair, my own perfume. I used them as my first fashion inspirations. I even tried to write an entire musical using TIffany's first album, thinking that maybe we'd meet when I completed the script and took it to Broadway. Then, matured to Carly Simon, after seeing "Working Girl." A passionate, emotional voice echoing through the whole world calling out to women everywhere. All that crazy long feathered hair blowing in the wind on the back of the Staten Island Ferry singing her her heart out. In my teen years it was all Tori Amos. I died my hair red on my 16th birthday and knew the words to every song she sang, wrote them on the covers of my notebooks, thought about taking up piano, and most certainly called myself a Toriphile or some ridiculous stalker name. I probably dabbled in some Ani DiFranco in college. Who didn't?
Most recently it's been Neko Case. Rachel Maddow. Bjork. Well now I have a new one.
Allison Mosshart. Half of "The Kills". Half of "The Dead Weather."
Hello rock and roll star. Joan Jett and Pat Benatar incarnate, but with better hair. I tried my best to keep this crush at a minimum, because let's face it. She's the epitome of Hipsterdom. Every skinny jean wearing muther fucker out there loves her. My GAP-wearing, clean-laced, bourgeoisie ass is probably on her KILL LIST. Well, clearly, I'm attracted to ladies that are a total mess. My new GF Allison is a drinking, smoking, erratic, dramatic, hot rock-n-roll mess with a voice that punches you in the face. This is exactly everything that I am not. Which, I presume is what makes her so crushable.
Evidence:
Treat Me Like Your Mother Video
In the past, I suppose I crushed on Bjork so much because girl dresses like a three year-old that insists on doing her own hair and wearing rain boots, a tutu, a cowgirl shirt and a stocking cap. She let's her insides dictate her wardrobe, which usually equates to confusion and and an emotional clusterfuck. A mess.
And a mess is something I can never pull-off. I like showering and brushing my hair. I don't smoke. I don't drink whiskey. I can't stand on stage, or in front of a camera, or straddle a piano seat bench and serenade a crowd with my heart leaping out of my throat in song. SO, I have a type. I crush on girls that are a little bit what I wish I was and shall never be. Maybe for my 40th birthday (yes, already planning it) I'll invite them all, we'll do several lines, drink vodka out of the bottle, wear bras and leather pants, rent out a theater, invite everyone I know, perform in my all girlcrush band and go on a 72-hour bender. But probably it will be a dinner party with fresh squeezed cocktails, farm-fresh food, discussion about babies, independent film, and fashion. Alas.... I'd bore my crushes to tears.
So, I'll continue to love them from afar, dress like them in my head, have secret conversations with them while I'm supposed to be working. Don't worry, I'm not going all Tyler Durtan on you.
