Talking to Girls About Duran Duran: One Young Man's Quest for True Love and a Cooler Haircut by Rob Sheffield Page A
Authors: Rob Sheffield
Tags: United States, Literary, Personal Memoirs, Biography & Autobiography, Editors; Journalists; Publishers, music, Journalists, Biography, Genres & Styles, Rock Music, History and Criticism, Composers & Musicians, Rock, Journalists - United States, Music Critics, Sheffield; Rob, Music critics - United States, Rock music - History and criticism
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proper psych-up music for the match ahead of us. Jose from the Bronx, the first kid I ever saw breakdance in real life, brought salsa tapes to get the testosterone pumping. He was serious, and clearly bound for varsity next year. The kid who brought in Yes was clearly killing time till Frisbee season. One kid always insisted on The Who’s Quadrophenia , which suggests a self-sabotaging sense of doom.
The tape everyone could agree on was the Stones. Jose pointed out the congas in “Sympathy for the Devil,” but Hot Rocks had too many slow songs, so it always ended up being the Maxell C-90 tape with Emotional Rescue on one side and Tattoo You on the other. “She’s So Cold,” that was the jam. Mick Jagger sang like he was a hot girl, so it was odd how perfect he was at psyching us up for a wrestling match. Mick Jagger was a skinny-guy role model for me, at a time when it was not acceptable to be skinny—those were the days of Soloflex Man posters and Nautilus ads. My bone structure would have been an undeniable asset if I’d been a future Eastern European tranny underwear model, yet it was a stigma for a high school boy in that time and place. It was embarrassing to have other people see my shoulders, arms or legs. But in wrestling drag, my body was invisible, because I was in character. All anyone could see was the unitard of valor.
Or at least that’s how I perceived it. Of course, at any match, the other team across the room would see me on the bench, and eagerly check the coach’s clipboard to see which one of them got that kid. I never had to check Mr. Coughlin’s clipboard, because I could always tell the guy who was paired up with me—he was the one sitting on the bench, salivating, twitching his knee because he could barely wait for his turn to get out there. He had that delirious look in his eye. You know in the cartoons when Bugs Bunny gets trapped in the desert, starved for food, so then he looks over at Daffy Duck and sees a mirage where Daffy’s a roast duck rotating on a spit? That look.
To pin me, he had to hold my shoulders down on the mat for three seconds, when the ref would blow his whistle and give the mat that resounding splaaat slap. So that means I was guaranteed to last at least three seconds out there, and I loved the adrenaline of stepping out by myself, no teammates to lean on, the eyes of the crowd on me, maybe a dropped jaw or two, all the bitterly jealous guys on the other side of the room wishing they’d gained or lost a few pounds in time to pair off with me. I loved the squeaky noises of our wrestling shoes on the mat. I was a star, or at least part of the show, and I walked tall out there. Taking my stand. Defending my . . . splaaat !
On the way home, we bonded. If anyone resented me bringing our team record down, nobody ever mentioned it or made fun of me for it. We’d fought hard that day. Next year, some of us would make varsity; some of us would run around the gym waving a badminton racquet. But tonight, we sang the Stones all the way back to school.
Over two seasons, I lost fourteen matches. I made them earn it—no surrender, no retreat, no permanent spinal damage. I didn’t count how many times I went the distance and lost on points, rather than getting pinned before the match ended, but I know there were a bunch of those. I learned a lot about bringing down an opponent and using his aggressive energy against him, as long as he doesn’t have any muscles. If I ever end up in a bar brawl with a flamingo, I am taking that bastard down.
My wife still does not believe me.
THE HUMAN LEAGUE
“Love Action”
1982
Around ninth grade, my trusty clock radio began playing something weird. First, it went clink-clank . Then it went bloop-bloop . After the wrrrp-wrrrp kicked in, there came a blizzard of squisha-squisha-squisha noises. It sounded like a Morse code transmission from another planet, a world of lust and danger and nonstop erotic cabaret. What was
The tape everyone could agree on was the Stones. Jose pointed out the congas in “Sympathy for the Devil,” but Hot Rocks had too many slow songs, so it always ended up being the Maxell C-90 tape with Emotional Rescue on one side and Tattoo You on the other. “She’s So Cold,” that was the jam. Mick Jagger sang like he was a hot girl, so it was odd how perfect he was at psyching us up for a wrestling match. Mick Jagger was a skinny-guy role model for me, at a time when it was not acceptable to be skinny—those were the days of Soloflex Man posters and Nautilus ads. My bone structure would have been an undeniable asset if I’d been a future Eastern European tranny underwear model, yet it was a stigma for a high school boy in that time and place. It was embarrassing to have other people see my shoulders, arms or legs. But in wrestling drag, my body was invisible, because I was in character. All anyone could see was the unitard of valor.
Or at least that’s how I perceived it. Of course, at any match, the other team across the room would see me on the bench, and eagerly check the coach’s clipboard to see which one of them got that kid. I never had to check Mr. Coughlin’s clipboard, because I could always tell the guy who was paired up with me—he was the one sitting on the bench, salivating, twitching his knee because he could barely wait for his turn to get out there. He had that delirious look in his eye. You know in the cartoons when Bugs Bunny gets trapped in the desert, starved for food, so then he looks over at Daffy Duck and sees a mirage where Daffy’s a roast duck rotating on a spit? That look.
To pin me, he had to hold my shoulders down on the mat for three seconds, when the ref would blow his whistle and give the mat that resounding splaaat slap. So that means I was guaranteed to last at least three seconds out there, and I loved the adrenaline of stepping out by myself, no teammates to lean on, the eyes of the crowd on me, maybe a dropped jaw or two, all the bitterly jealous guys on the other side of the room wishing they’d gained or lost a few pounds in time to pair off with me. I loved the squeaky noises of our wrestling shoes on the mat. I was a star, or at least part of the show, and I walked tall out there. Taking my stand. Defending my . . . splaaat !
On the way home, we bonded. If anyone resented me bringing our team record down, nobody ever mentioned it or made fun of me for it. We’d fought hard that day. Next year, some of us would make varsity; some of us would run around the gym waving a badminton racquet. But tonight, we sang the Stones all the way back to school.
Over two seasons, I lost fourteen matches. I made them earn it—no surrender, no retreat, no permanent spinal damage. I didn’t count how many times I went the distance and lost on points, rather than getting pinned before the match ended, but I know there were a bunch of those. I learned a lot about bringing down an opponent and using his aggressive energy against him, as long as he doesn’t have any muscles. If I ever end up in a bar brawl with a flamingo, I am taking that bastard down.
My wife still does not believe me.
THE HUMAN LEAGUE
“Love Action”
1982
Around ninth grade, my trusty clock radio began playing something weird. First, it went clink-clank . Then it went bloop-bloop . After the wrrrp-wrrrp kicked in, there came a blizzard of squisha-squisha-squisha noises. It sounded like a Morse code transmission from another planet, a world of lust and danger and nonstop erotic cabaret. What was
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