This evening I was notified of my nomination to the diarist.net awards in the category of Hall of Fame. Apparently, I am assumed directly into heaven, do not pass go, do not stop to collect any other awards, if I win. Hall of Famers are disqualified for any other diarist.net award categories. I will accept it if the voting public awards it to me, of course. You know how I feel about awards. You don't? Well, I'm old fashioned about web awards. I don't want anything I have to nominate myself for. They're only worthwhile if someone voluntarily honors me. I value a certain kind of external validation. Being recognised as a good writer is always a thrill, whether it's being nominated for an award, or being interviewed for a magazine, or simply mentioned in a list of someone's favorite diarists. Fame! I'm gonna live forever! Baby, remember my name....
Ah, yes, the music of my youth, such fine, deathless prose. She's a maniac, maaaaniac on the floor, Billy Jean is not my lover, she's just a girl who thinks that I am the one. Doing the Safety dance, I hear the rain down in Africa, I come from a land Down Under where women glow and men chunder, baby remember my name, or at least these annoyingly invasive melodies which cannot be expunged from your brain the way you tossed out the shoulder pads from your wardrobe. If you can remember my name you were either a pop-mad New Wave punkette with black eyeliner and fishnets under torn skirts, or a dance-crazed kid in a skinny tie and leather jacket with epaulets, or you have been watching way too much Big 80's on MTV. And I ran, I ran so far away, I just died in your arms tonight, take on me, take me on, C30 C60 C90 go! What I like about you, you really know how to dance, my angel in the centerfold, let's dance under the moonlight, the serious moonlight. Roxanne, Alison, oh Sherry, meet you all the way Rosanna, my my my my Sharona, we got the beat.
Personally, I'm glad the stuff I listened to on the radio back then was generally PG. It's going to be really weird when the kids today are old geezers in the nursing home being all weepy and nostalgic for music about bitches and hos and crack and gang fights. O Superman.
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