Friday, April 17, 2009
Rock Star. snort.
This flashback Friday's challenge was to go back to your teen years and the music you listened too. Of course I had visions of grandeur and just didn't "listen", I believed I'd be a "rock star". This is also a random memory, an idea I lifted from Debi T, 2 peas, in which you have a story but not a picture to go with it, so you pick a photo you don't have a story for and wa-la. LAYOUT! Love that. Used some stash on this which rocks. Snort. Bo Bunny, bazzill, QK blossom & swirl, and some fabric my pal Brooke gave me. Perfect match.
journaling: Staying at Gram and Grandpop’s house was fun. You could do things there you never could do at home. Like “blast” your records in mom’s old bedroom. I’m talkin’ 45’s on a phonograph turned way UP. Of course the full length mirror perfectly positioned on the closet door right next to the phonograph added to the allure that I was gonna be a “ROCK STAR” when I grew up. The phonograph could only play one 45 (and sometimes 33 1/3, at a time, so the songs had to be lined up in advance; THEN, of course no star worth their salt sang on stage without their hairbrush as a mic AND a hip outfit. Yup. I had the coolest dress, above the knee *gasp* with a zipper offset on the front (learned real quick to safety pin that puppy because boys can be, well, boys); blue and gold, my school colors. It was also polyester double knit (ick) but rockin’ for the time. So once I was outfitted, the songs lined up, the mirror cleared of all hanging clothes, *I* was ready to step on stage and sing my heart out. (Here I must add that my Gram, bless her heart, told me I was an awesome singer. Finding out that it was not true broke my heart; I sang so bad I made the cat howl). But this was my delusional daydream that was alot of fun. I sang to some greats like Leslie Gore’s You Don’t Own Me (one of my favs still today), Elvis Presley’s Crying in the Chapel, EARLY Beatles, ANYTHING The Four Seasons because well Frankie could hit the high notes. Of course along with the singing came the dancing, the dramatic pouts and smiles, eye closing and flirting and the knowledge that when the music swelled and crescendoed while I was dancing and singing in front of the mirror proved that *I* was one with the beat. *I* was a rock star.