La Rousse

Though I like Paramore and their flame-haired chanteuse, Hayley Williams's got nothing on Shirley Manson, the original redheaded rock goddess and lead singer of Garbage. I happened to watch a recent interview she did on Craig Ferguson's show earlier in the week, and dammmmn -- for a 43-year-old, she looks almost twenty years younger. (And she got married recently! AND it looks like Garbage might be back together!!) I ended up watching all of her interviews on Craig Ferguson's show on Youtube -- really, at this point my ideal TV show would be to have Shirley Manson and Craig Ferguson bantering back and forth in their Scottish accents. They are HILARIOUS together.

Shirley's just one of those girls I think I'd love to meet in person. I looked up her Facebook page and I've read some of the notes she's posted. Who knew she loves Silversun Pickups and the Yeah Yeah Yeahs? Guess who else loves Silversun Pickups and the Yeah Yeah Yeahs? (Hmm... let me guess... which band is on the header of this blog? And which band's song title is in the About Me section of this blog?)

I suppose it might be considered "creepy" or "weird" that I've spent a good chunk of the afternoon reading her posts, but it's amazing how much you get to know somebody by reading their writing. She's classy as well; she wrote a post defending Taylor Swift, noting that Swift's detractors jumped all over her when she wasn't pitch-perfect at the Grammy's, but they forget that Swift carved her way to stardom on her own terms as a legitimate songwriter. And considering my own recent reflections on Miley Cyrus, I agree with Shirley a hundred percent.

And she writes poems!!

A STAG

A stag stands his ground on a lothian field
Caught between Morta and Artemis
Locked in bitter combat
Who shall be queen of this waste land ?
Sod wet and heavy as he waits
Head cocked on high alert
Watching rain pelt dirt
And the birds pecking

God is nowhere to be seen
Late for his shift
In an unsurprising no show
He goes unmissed
We curve inward against the wind
And wrestle our rage into points
Sharp as glass
That could rip the wrist
Faster than you can blink

Red granite etched in gold
Nestled there alone
Row upon row of cold grey stone
You stand out a mile in death
As you did whilst you were living
Bright as a smile and a little rude
In this most somber of settings

Satisfied that all is in order
We bundle ourselves and head home
A straight hit along the old edinburgh road
To cups of tea and shortbread biscuits
Everything in its right place
But with something missing

The stag snorts and lets leash
A plume of steam
From each wide nostril
Mystical cryptic beast
Stamps his feet
And holds his ground


S.A.M 2010

Sigh. You know what would be awesome? If I could have a dinner party with Shirley Manson, OLIVIA, and T.O.P. all at the dinner table and we'd all understand each other perfectly because there would be no such thing as a language barrier. They are all such funny, charming, inspiring musicians -- I can only imagine how freaking awesome the dinner conversation would be.
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It suddenly came back to me -- how I ever found Garbage in the first place. She was still my debate partner then. We were in the debate room listening to her iPod, and I fell in love with Garbage's "Why Do You Love Me."

There's always these little moments when I suddenly remember that Sophelia was once Juliet Kitteridge and that she was Rose Mortmain and how it all fell apart like a tragic retelling of Violet and Claire and how sometimes I see our old photographs and wonder what went wrong. I remember how we wrote vignettes to each other in e-mailed letters, and how I was still in the phase where I imitated Francesca Lia Block, but Rose had always been real. Always, always.