Stop Labeling me. I'm a non conformist

I, like millions of other people around the world am reading the book “A New Earth” by Eckhart Tolle. Oprah is totally into it and therefore so am I. Just kidding. Well, mostly. I have been interested in the ideas presented in this book for sometime now and I am really jazzed to see so many people embracing it. I am not going to tell you to read it (although you would be happy if you did) or agree with it. I am mentioning it because it pertains to a little story I have to tell.

I n chapter two of his book Mr. Tolle (pronounced Toll-ee) talks about identity and labels. He talks about how we humans have a tendency and need to label things and people. You see it everywhere. This is a gay bar, this is a punk club, and this is the water that Michael Jordan drinks. All of these ideas, these labels have value to us: they seem to tell us who we think we are and make it easier for us to judge others. I see it mostly in groups of people. I have written about this before, but I find it fascinating that folks that consider themselves outsiders will not accept people who don’t dress like them. Think about it, all “frat boys” dress alike. Khakis, button up shirt, shit eating grin. There is even a look for so-called “soccer moms”. This is a way for us to tell ourselves that we belong. When you break it down like that, it’s pretty lame. Even “not having a label” is a way of the ego trying to exert itself. The ego gets to think, “I am better than them, I don’t label.” I know, deep shit right? I promise this is going somewhere.

Last weekend Andy and I were talking, yet again, about music. To say that Andy is into music is an understatement. He is totally that guy who knows the names of the people in the band, when the new album is coming out, and what their influences are. Me? Not so much. I mean, yeah I like music who doesn’t? But I don’t bother with the details. I really don’t care. If it sounds good I’ll listen. So, we are eating pizza and listening to his ipod. This means that I probably don’t know many of the songs and have not heard of the bands. Not to sound like an old lady, but most of it sounds the same to me. (In my defense I think one could say that about any type of music they don’t know. Take punk for example: I can tell The Ramones from The Clash from The Sex Pistols probably because I like it and have taken the time to listen to it.) So, there we are enjoying our lunch listening to music. Every time a new song comes on I ask, “Who is this?” and am met with a prompt reply. This was fine until…

“What the hell is this? Who’s the whiner this time?”
“Radiohead!”
(Trouble kids, is spelt R-A-D-I-O-H-E-A-D.)

“Oh, well, I didn’t know. All that emo stuff sounds the same to me. Sorry.”
(Trouble is also spelt E-M-O.)

Andy’s face looked like I had just shot his dog, tortured his mother and took his grandma’s cane away. He looked personally offended and hurt. HURT! He said that I was criticizing “his music”, and thus the problem was born.

“Um, Radiohead is NOT emo! I hate emo and I like Radiohead. They are rock.”
(Uh, huh.)

Needless to say Andy went on defending Radiohead and I went on saying I just didn’t get it. (And it is SO not rock. Puh-leeeeeze.)

I was totally confused. How in the world can a person take a comment like that “personally”? It’s not like Andy is IN the band. He didn’t write the songs or sing them or play the guitar (do they use one?) It’s the same with football other sports and people who like Donnie Darko. Men always, ALWAYS say things like, “Yeah, we totally won.” Um, you are totally not on the team. It has always bugged me.

But I get it now! After reading Tolle’s book, I get it. It is all about identification and identity. See, Andy HATES emo music, and emo dudes and all the other labels that go with that particular brand of music. So when I called a band he likes “emo” it felt to him like an attack on his identity. He got defensive.

Over the past few years I have been really trying to not do that. It used to be that if you told me Elvis was a racist I would have argued with you till I was blue in the face. Why? Because part of my “identity”, my ego, was “I am an Elvis fan. If you don’t like Elvis you are my enemy.” I am trying really hard not to do that any more. I don’t see myself as a “punk” or a “democrat” or “a singer”. I am just a girl who listens to punk music, tends to vote with a tilty to the left and I can carry a pretty good tune. I mean, who cares right? Do our beliefs really make up who we are? Am I just a mass of opinions and likes and dislikes? Do people really like Radiohead? (Ha…just teasing)

I guess the whole reason I wrote this little piece is because it has been on my mind since then. I have been trying to really take this to heart and not label and not BE my beliefs. I started thinking: If all of that crap fell away, who would I be? The answer?

Cher.

Ok...just teasing gain.

You make clay sexy

When I was growing up my world consisted of three things: school, home and Bruce Willis. You probably weren’t expecting that last one, but I’m just being honest. I loved the man. L-O-V-E-D him. I wore black for a month when he married Demi and I had a framed picture of him that I took with me if I were to be away from home for an extended period of time. My bedroom wall was a shrine to his cute little sideways smile. I had over 350 pictures of him. I just stopped counting after that.

Few things mean more to a teen girl than her first celebrity crush. I don’t know why, and frankly, it doesn’t matter. But for the girl in question, that movie star means the world to her. For me it started small. Bruce wasn’t my first. I have kept this a secret for quite some time, but I think you all are ready to hear about it. My first celebrity crush was on none other than Eddie Mekka. Who? Um…Carmine Ragusa. You know, The Big Ragoo? Yeah, I know not super sexy, or even cool, and looking back I kinda think that he was gay and probably set the stage for me loving gay men later in life – but that is beside the point. The point is I loved The Big Ragoo. My diary confirms it. There were others as well, but this is not about The Big Ragoo or Bruno. This is about The Swayze.

While I was at karaoke Monday night we were all talking about this very subject and I brought up The Swayze – you know, how hot he is, good dancer (again!) and the super cool movie Dirty Dancing. It was then that my friend Becky completely shattered my little world. “Oh, Patrick Swayze is dying of cancer.” WHAT? I wanted to hit her in the face for telling me lies about him, and for doing it at karaoke while Noah and Austin were singing “(I’ve Had) The Time of My Life”. What the hell? How can you just blurt out a thing like that?

I am completely devastated. It seems Becky is not a dirty liar. The Swayze has been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer — one of the most fatal forms of the disease. The average life expectancy is six to nine months, with only 4 percent of patients living more than five years. I feel bad for the man.

I began to wonder why I felt such empathy for him. I met him once as a girl (yes, I HAD to throw that in) but I don’t think it really rocked his world, you know? But he was a part of my childhood in a way that can never be smudged out. I don’t know. I think girls today don’t get that. Do they even make Tiger Beat Magazine anymore? I doubt it. Today, it is all about celebrities in rehab and parties and how often they have hooked up with Lindsay Lohan and the Olsen twins. I didn’t have the internet and 24 hour access to Bruce, Corey or The Swayze. If I wanted to look at La Bacon I had to go out and buy a magazine with him in it, cut out the picture and stare longingly at it for hours. My celebrity boyfriends were completely untouchable and that, I think, made my little crush more real. I had to nurture it. I had to really show my devotion by clipping pictures, seeing (not downloading) the movie and writing fan letters. Hell, I felt like The Swayze really appreciated me. And I just don’t think it’s like that today.

So, Mr. Swayze I just want you to know that I still love you. I remember how nice you were to me when I met you and you gave me batteries. You still have the ability to bring me out of a bad mood every time I hear you say, “No one puts Baby in a corner”. You were like the coolest guy from The Outsiders to Ghost. For you Mr. Swayze, I rise up and shout at the top of my lungs – “WOLVERINES!”

Good Luck and God Bless.