Back at liberal arts college, people were always telling me about “self-care.” Taking vanilla-scented baths and getting exercise and letting the sun shine on your face and whatnot. I dunno, are you supposed to do that stuff even if it’s not part of your normal happy routine? When does self-care become more annoying than depression itself? I’d rather feel shitty in bed than drag my ass to the yoga mat.
I’m currently engaged in a Herculean effort to bring myself back from the brink after watching my best friend die right in front of me (aka the Breaking Bad finale, for you laypeople).
I ran out of vanilla bath beads last NEVER, so I can’t do any of that normal inward-healing shit. I’ve just been consuming the hair of the dog: more media! Whenever I feel sad or bereft, I go back to the music and movies that have given me life since I was wee.
BB was a pretty serious blow, so I had to bring out the big guns. Four big guns. The cutest and most trusty guns I’ve ever known.
I dunno, guys. Nobody GETS ME. I wish I had someone else to wax Beatles with, but I live alone on this beautiful and quaint little island. I mean, I know you like The Beatles and everything, but does a new day dawn on your heart when you hear them? Do their adorable antics cradle you in a bassinet of joy? Do you obsessively compare Paul and John’s different but equally arousing approaches to masculinity? Actually, I did hear a really good joke the other day that you might like. How’s sex with Paul McCartney? Your mother should know! BEATLES HUMOR. GET INTO IT.
When I am really far gone, I delve into The Innocent Era, 1965 and earlier. Usually it’s just repeated viewings of A Hard Day’s Night, which I shall now attempt to convince you is the most wonderful medicine for the sads.
For me, the music heals most of all. A Hard Day’s Night is a REALLY charming film (more on that later), and the soundtrack is just extraordinary. Although 1964 was the high point of their teen pop era, these songs can’t be discounted in the larger pantheon of Beatles genius. This soundtrack in particular has such an awesome capacity to lift me; the songs are perfect pop compositions, so clearly composed by youngsters. Their harmonies are simple and jaw-droppingly pretty. And performed by such delightful kids. One of my favorites:
You might be aware that I’ve been like, insanely obsessed with The Beatles since I’ve had ears, so of course these songs, and this film, have a very specific nostalgia factor for me. I watch A Hard Day’s Night when I want to remind myself of what it felt like to fall in love with art. I watch it when I’m devastated to lose one of my fictional touchstones (DAMN YOU, “Felina”) that help me so much on my road to self-discovery.
You’ve got to keep your favorite things alive inside you. You’ve got to know what you like. To re-consume my favorite pop culture is to fall in love with humans, with the CRAZY fact that we’re on this planet and we get to make things. I remember being really bowled over by the fact that this music was real, and made me feel, and other people made of flesh and blood had made it, and I had the privilege to be alive and be able to hear it and be happy. What? No. I’m not on drugs. Are you on drugs? Quit that cynicism and dig my open soul here.
I used to watch A Hard Day’s Night with my middle school best friend, a girl who wasn’t afraid to try a fandom on the edge. We were twelve, so we liked a lot of weird things, and we had a bottomless capacity for fawning and flailing and general hysteria. We identified with those screaming chicks in the film. It just didn’t seem that strange to be so far gone with celebrity worship that you would heave your body over railings towards four boys in suits, and then go home to your special room padded with Beatles posters to drool and to dream.
At that time in my life, there was little shame in anything. I mean, I thought I was self-critical then, but MAN, pre-teen Leah doesn’t even compare to mid-20s Leah. Back then, I didn’t get into things because anyone said I was supposed to (and here’s an essay about that). I just loved what I loved. I was unafraid to tell others what I loved. It was just my best friend and I after school, gorging ourselves on culture and unwittingly molding our perspectives on the media all around us. There was no social media profile where I picked and chose which movies and television and music to publicly display allegiance for, so people would get “the right idea” about me. Back then, I didn’t even know it was an option for me to look cool, so I let it all hang out.
And I miss that, so much. That’s what The Beatles still do for me. They gently unzip my heart again, and let it all hang out. I don’t let anyone really see it anymore, but to see that it’s still there, still beating and still so weird, is enough for me.
This is a clipping from a teen magazine in 1965 that I saved for ten years or more. It’s just one of those moments, frozen in time, that makes me smile. Because this is what it’s like to be a fan – to let something so small, so superficial, like pop music, give you pleasure as intense as you allow it to be.
As I stood in front of my favorite Beatle, the only thing I could think of was that his contact lenses looked like they hurt him. He smiled and stuck out his hand and without thinking, I rested my right arm on top of his left while we shook hands!
“John,” I said, “are your contacts bothering you?”
“No,” he answered. I got the distinct feeling that not too many people had asked that question.
Undaunted, I plunged on. “I have them too!” I confided.
He leaned closer and stared searchingly into my eyes. “Are yours bothering you?” he said with a straight face.
“No,” I stammered, and then we both laughed.
“They’re good, aren’t they?” John said seriously, and I could only nod, not trusting my voice. “But your eyes are prettier then mine,” John said, and to my dismay, unwanted tears rolled down my cheeks. “Hey,” John said with a slight laugh, “don’t cry or they’ll wash away!”
I smiled through my tears as I blurted, “John, you’re my favorite.”
He smiled warmly, gave my hand a final shake and said, “You’re my favorite.”
Perhaps the boys and their corresponding Beatlemania, the expansive cultural influence, have something to do with their status in my life as a soul-salve. It feels to nice to be part of something, doesn’t it? To love The Beatles means that I love something integral to the fabric of modern civilization. I might be a little on the extreme end of the spectrum, but you and I can agree that George Harrison plucked a wicked 12-string.
Did you see the tsunami of Breaking Bad wash across your newsfeeds and dashboards and real-life interactions? Even if you didn’t watch the show, or didn’t like it (whatever THAT means), it was certainly an exciting time. When pop culture ripples like that, it makes me feel so alive and so connected. And that feeling becomes doubly wonderful, dare I say spiritual, when I’ve got a real emotional stake in it. Thank goodness for storytelling in all its forms – thank goodness for creativity! We’re all creating dreams for one another. That’s exactly what you’re doing when you’re watching or making a show, a movie, or a song. You’re writing and painting my dreams. And I’ll accept that gift with open arms and I’ll never quit typing or tweeting or talking about it, because you deserve to know that it meant a lot to me.
Hmm. It kind of gives these shrieking girls a touch of nobility, no?
Forgive my effusiveness (that’s a fancy word for “crazy”). I’m feeling a lot. This post is how I cope. Not afraid to say it felt awesome to share.
Don’t be afraid to love what you love. There’s no shame in fandom, in any of its forms. “Guilty pleasure” is a term created by the cool kids, and honestly, you don’t wanna be them. They’re soulless and alone even when they’re with people. Let’s come together, right now. I bet you’ve got a few pop-culture coping mechanisms of your own. Feel free to leave me a comment and unzip ’em. I’ll be waiting for you in the vanilla steam of a Los Angeles bathtub.