Pass the Metamuscil
Okay, so I admit, I've been slacking on blogging. But in my defense, Jamieland has been quite boring, what with the snow, no hippie roommate or excess money floating around to buy entertainment. Oooh, that totally sounded like I buy hookers, which I do not. Buy PC entertainment. That won't give me an STD. Or a baby.
Anyways...so since the last blog I have had a birthday. I am now 27. Which doesn't sound too bad to most people, but if you ask a 27 year old how that sounds, it sounds less like "twenty-seven" and more like "Danger, Will Robinson, Danger!".
A few weeks before my birthday I made the mistake of watching a 1970s science fiction film called "Logan's Run". It was actually entertaining. A bit campy but the majority of films in the 70s had cheese oozing out of every pore, in my opinion. The plot of the movie was simple, and mimicked the book closesly. It takes place in a future time when Earth is so overpopulated that new regulations have been mandated that all members of society must "voluntarily" be euthanized on their 30th birthday. If they do not want to go willingly, they may participate in a thing called a "run", where they run and attempt to hide from the government. If they can escape, they can live in hiding for as long as possible. The goverment hires "sandmen" to track down the runners. One of these sandmen is a 29 year old man who is brought in to be a covert spy and pretend to be a runner in an effort to join their group and find their secret hiding place. As Logan takes to running, he meets a woman (of course) and becomes smitten with her and the ideals these runners embody.
So I immeadiately finished watching this film and texted Amanda (who isn't even 25 yet, doesnt even round UP to 30) and told her that I was sad as I was 3 years away from fictional euthinasia. Her response was less than sympathetic, and after some obligatory fake whining of Matlock, Reader's Digest and prune juice I moved on from the horrible movie's message.
Until today, when I came across an article on how musicians die at 27. 27. As in the age I am now. TWENTY- SEVEN. Luckily I am not a musician, even if I can recite the lyrics to the vast majority of songs I have ever heard. However here is the list of those greats brought down by The Man (aka, the space time continum, aka the number 27)...
1. Jimi Hendrix. Year 1970. Age? 27.
Choked on own vomit in drug-induced stupor.
So I have a couple of things working in my favor on this comparison..1. Not a world famous African-American guitar legend 2. Not a drug addict. 3. I don't sleep on my back.
2. Brian Jones (The Rolling Stones). Year 1969. Age? 27
Found face down in his swimming pool a month after being kicked out of The Rolling Stones.
Well, there is always a chance I will die by drowning. I do swim and you can drown in 2 inches of water (thank goodness for those PSA's all these years), however I am, again, not an alcoholic or drug addict so unless I'm knocked unconcious or some other unforseen misforture occurs to prevent me from reaching the top I don't see this as very likley.
3. Janis Joplin. Year 1970. Age? 27.
Heroin Overdose
1. Not a drug addict 2. Too poor to afford to become a drug addict 3. Not filled with enough angst or self-loathing to become a drug addict.
4. Jim Morrison. Year 1971. Age? 27.
Found dead in his apartment in "unusual circumstances" although no autopsy was ever performed.
Hmm, well I think the differences between Jim Morrison and myself are pretty apparent and vast. I am not the lizard king.
5. Kurt Cobain. Year 1994. Age? 27.
Self-inflicted gunshot wound.
So Kurt and I both grew up in the Puget Sound. We both grew up in the south end before moving north (him from Olympia to Seattle, myself from Sumner to Kirkland). We both have been to the teapot in Tacoma. We both wore flannel in the 90s. However, I did not marry the coked out waitress from the Teapot. I did not partake in drugs. And I do not suffer from the same self-imposed dispondant neurosis which he willingly threw himself head first into. Hell, I think I even only wore flannel because of him. Plus I don't even own a gun.
I guess all in all, 27 is a very unlucky age for a rock star, but not so evil for an average Jo(sephine). I will continue hurling towards middle age, free of rock star lore and societal euthenasia. Hooray!
Anyways...so since the last blog I have had a birthday. I am now 27. Which doesn't sound too bad to most people, but if you ask a 27 year old how that sounds, it sounds less like "twenty-seven" and more like "Danger, Will Robinson, Danger!".
A few weeks before my birthday I made the mistake of watching a 1970s science fiction film called "Logan's Run". It was actually entertaining. A bit campy but the majority of films in the 70s had cheese oozing out of every pore, in my opinion. The plot of the movie was simple, and mimicked the book closesly. It takes place in a future time when Earth is so overpopulated that new regulations have been mandated that all members of society must "voluntarily" be euthanized on their 30th birthday. If they do not want to go willingly, they may participate in a thing called a "run", where they run and attempt to hide from the government. If they can escape, they can live in hiding for as long as possible. The goverment hires "sandmen" to track down the runners. One of these sandmen is a 29 year old man who is brought in to be a covert spy and pretend to be a runner in an effort to join their group and find their secret hiding place. As Logan takes to running, he meets a woman (of course) and becomes smitten with her and the ideals these runners embody.
So I immeadiately finished watching this film and texted Amanda (who isn't even 25 yet, doesnt even round UP to 30) and told her that I was sad as I was 3 years away from fictional euthinasia. Her response was less than sympathetic, and after some obligatory fake whining of Matlock, Reader's Digest and prune juice I moved on from the horrible movie's message.
Until today, when I came across an article on how musicians die at 27. 27. As in the age I am now. TWENTY- SEVEN. Luckily I am not a musician, even if I can recite the lyrics to the vast majority of songs I have ever heard. However here is the list of those greats brought down by The Man (aka, the space time continum, aka the number 27)...
1. Jimi Hendrix. Year 1970. Age? 27.
Choked on own vomit in drug-induced stupor.
So I have a couple of things working in my favor on this comparison..1. Not a world famous African-American guitar legend 2. Not a drug addict. 3. I don't sleep on my back.
2. Brian Jones (The Rolling Stones). Year 1969. Age? 27
Found face down in his swimming pool a month after being kicked out of The Rolling Stones.
Well, there is always a chance I will die by drowning. I do swim and you can drown in 2 inches of water (thank goodness for those PSA's all these years), however I am, again, not an alcoholic or drug addict so unless I'm knocked unconcious or some other unforseen misforture occurs to prevent me from reaching the top I don't see this as very likley.
3. Janis Joplin. Year 1970. Age? 27.
Heroin Overdose
1. Not a drug addict 2. Too poor to afford to become a drug addict 3. Not filled with enough angst or self-loathing to become a drug addict.
4. Jim Morrison. Year 1971. Age? 27.
Found dead in his apartment in "unusual circumstances" although no autopsy was ever performed.
Hmm, well I think the differences between Jim Morrison and myself are pretty apparent and vast. I am not the lizard king.
5. Kurt Cobain. Year 1994. Age? 27.
Self-inflicted gunshot wound.
So Kurt and I both grew up in the Puget Sound. We both grew up in the south end before moving north (him from Olympia to Seattle, myself from Sumner to Kirkland). We both have been to the teapot in Tacoma. We both wore flannel in the 90s. However, I did not marry the coked out waitress from the Teapot. I did not partake in drugs. And I do not suffer from the same self-imposed dispondant neurosis which he willingly threw himself head first into. Hell, I think I even only wore flannel because of him. Plus I don't even own a gun.
I guess all in all, 27 is a very unlucky age for a rock star, but not so evil for an average Jo(sephine). I will continue hurling towards middle age, free of rock star lore and societal euthenasia. Hooray!
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