confessions of a closet indie kid

Most of the time I go through life generally pretty happy with who I am, what I do, the people I meet, etc., but every now and again I get a little depressed that my life isn't quite as indie as I'd like it to be.

Whatever do you mean by that, Lorn? Define "indie."

Sure, there are some of you out there who might get slightly aggravated, nay, even offended, by my use of the term, being as terms often incorrectly classify a certain style or lump otherwise opposing forces into the same category. To you I say, I'm sorry. I usually don't have any idea what I'm talking about, so please go about your lives with the same quiet dignity as before.

What I mean by this indie inspired depression is, sometimes my clothes aren't unique or retro enough, sometimes I find my lack of skinny girl-jeans clad boyfriend appalling, and my cd collection occasionally, just occasionally, contains too few little known smart kid bands with catchy romantic tunes from the Pacific Northwest.

Moments like these come around after I have seen a touching, left-of-mainstream film such as, let's say, Garden State (Hans, rejoice, for yes, now I have seen it). Such films that leave me feeling more than a little smitten with Zach Braff (whose blog, by the way, is fantastically hilarious and ought to be read by you all, right now) and wondering, as endearingly gendered as the role may be, when I too will get to play muse to my own brand of Braff. I'd say that perhaps I could fill the part of tortured (or in this case, numb) soul undergoing transformation, but really, I think I've pretty much got life sorted out and there isn't much that's going to drastically change my world view at this point in time.

And it's moments like these that make me realize that Texas is probably the wrong place for finding these sorts of persons. But then again, let's not stereotype. Who knows? I think the population of lost soul indie kids is probably more varied and numerous in towns that I have left, such as, oh say, Madison. Just a hunch.

Furthermore, I am generalizing and romanticizing a sub-clique that likely wants no part in my enumerations of its desirability, having now been exposed for what it is in this and other such films. It is likely that any romance of mine will be normal and disappointingly straightforward in the usual way.

But that, friends is precisely why we have love stories- to make our own seem unsastifactory and to keep us running back to the CD store for more "soundtrack of our imaginary lives" bands so we can lie on the sofa and feel nostaligic for the lives we never had.

That Postal Service CD sure is good, though.