I’m still feeling bad about the other week, when I had too much wine and ended up forcing friends of mine to watch old videos of me in high school because I couldn’t believe how funny it was that my voice used to be deeper, and my friends were so funny, and I did so many funny things with a camera.
And I only subjected three people to that.
I know this is the kind of nostalgia that happens at thirty, when you think back to your time when you were just starting to figure out what kind of person you were, and you were totally wrong back then but so totally sure about who you were going to be. You held that video camera and declared to the lens (the room, the boy who doesn’t call you, the world) that you were going to be remembered forever. That moment, that time, you sitting on your bed with your super cool black-and-white striped comforter, underneath your pink 1969 poster of Robert Downey, Jr and Kiefer Sutherland, next to a ripped out page from Rolling Stone that has Perry Farrell singing naked, beside a pair of handcuffs you had chained to your day bed that you’ve never used because you haven’t had sex yet and won’t for years, but man if you don’t feel super cool about it, as you look over the declaration of your room combined with your vocal declaration to this machine recording your teenaged manifesto — that moment will last forever.
When you’re thirty, and you find that tape again after more than ten years and some of your closest friends are laughing at you because you’re the dorkiest girl who ever thought she might be cool, and why did anyone let you walk around in that giant t-shirt, striped tights and a red, checkered flannel? When you’re thirty, there’s something about finding that tape that’s just a little pathetic, a little sweet, and a relief that nobody else will ever see that tape now that you’ve found it again.
So basically I’m asking… what happens when Britney turns thirty? When little Red Bull or young Cheeto finds the DVD of Chaotic because he or she is getting teased at school, how will Britney handle it, since she can’t get any relief out of the knowledge that nobody’s really ever seen that tape?
After you’ve seen the most banal, boring, stupidest, pointless moments of celebrity, what is there to idolize?
(Wonder Killer: The sweet-ass hotel rooms that girl gets to prance around in. It’s a shame luxury can be so wasted on the slack-jawed. Gah.)