I Just Can't Get Enough

Today was beautiful. I was driving around town on errands, it was 84F/29C, and the sky was a bright, clean blue. On the radio, the song above began playing -- I suddenly opened the sunroof and all the windows, and cranked up the music of my wayward teenaged years.

First of all, you have to check out the video. It's so horrible, it's wonderful. This song was released in the UK in 1981, and you can just FEEL the 80's exploding in this video. Just look at Dave Gahan. He looks like a 19-year old that just had angry revenge sex for the first time in his life, like, 5 minutes before they began shooting. God bless 'im.

I think I went to my first Depeche Mode concert in 1984. My boyfriend's dad (or was he my best friend's boyfriend at the time, I don't remember) sent three or four of us his limo for the evening. We opened the sunroof as we headed into Manhattan, had the driver put in our CASSETTE (you heard me) and crank it up as we stuck our obnoxious juvenile little heads out the roof of the car and yelled at pedestrians. The seating in Radio City was covered in red velvet, and giant waves of pot smoke wafted into us as we screamed our stupid faces off. I wandered out at one point, looking for the bathroom, and collided with an incredibly wobbly boy with soft, curly brown hair. I asked him if he was ok, and he gently grabbed my shoulders and whispered "I smoked too much". It was my first life encounter with someone of the opposite sex who was out of control and yearned for my help and guidance, even if it was only me who knew it.

(Guffaw).

The boy with the chocolate-brown eyes usually reserved for baby calves and dying war heroes's name was Ben, and at that very moment, I decided that if I ever had a son, his name would be Ben. For the stupid little stoned boy I met at a Depeche Mode concert in 1984.

Let's not question my cosmically moronic decisions right now, the point of this blog, and yes, I do have one, is about the music.

And I began to wonder (here we go) to myself, if it's just the memories of the emotions from my youth that cause me to wing open the sunroof and turn up the music until the back speakers are booming? Am I hanging on to a feeling from a time in my life when I was completely free, with at least TEN solid years ahead of me where I could safely do nothing but fuck up and still come out ok in the end? (Ok, debatable, but roll with it.)

NO, I decided, as Daughtry came on and I stepped on the gas pedal with a big mental "Woo hoo!" and started racing the kid next to me in a blue Mustang. I'm still living.

:)