Birth of an Obsessor
Some people call it a one-night stand, but we can call it paradise.
--Duran Duran, "Save a Prayer"
Though I'd like to believe otherwise, this Henry Thomas fixation of mine didn't come out of nowhere. However, at my age, it was a surprise of sorts. Sporadic obsessions are nothing new to me. They come and go, some lasting longer than others. There's just no predicting how each will turn out. Usually one fixation is given up only to be replaced by another, equally, if not more irrational one. Recently I've begun to view this type of thing as a learning experience. One in which the silliness becomes apparent only after you've moved on. It'd be nice to think that I've made a gradual progression, maturing as I've plodded along. Unfortunately, this isn't quite the case, as you'll soon discover.
Most children have various passing fancies. For me it was Rick Springfield, Tom Selleck, and the color green (I still love the color green). But for the most part, I was only going through the motions. I desperately wanted to like what everyone else did, "Oh, Little River Band? Yeah, they're totally awesome." Sure, I could get into Styx and Loverboy as much as the next kid, but it wasn't really me. I didn't own any of their records (well, I couldn't-my mom wouldn't let be buy them). Then it all happened, somewhere between 5th and 6th grade. Just as I was about to take that journey down the path of rockerdom, I stumbled upon something different, something special, something that spoke only to me...Duran Duran. And I couldn't (and would never be able to) get enough.
In the beginning it was my secret love, it had to be that way. No one would've understood. I remember a friend calling me and bringing up that new-song-on-the-radio, "Rio" and how much it sucked. To save face, I agreed. Now I realize that Duran Duran can hardly be viewed as ground-breaking in the grand scheme of things, but in the smallish, suburb of Gresham, D2 were pretty darn radical. The town didn't even have cable yet, for crying out loud. MTV was something mythical I'd only heard, read, and dreamt about. Liking a bunch of guys in frilly clothes and make-up could really make life even tougher than it already was. As I already mentioned, my parents wouldn't even let me spend my allowance on records. My collection consisted of a few bible story 45's and a "Puff the Magic Dragon" LP from K-Mart. I'd chosen a tough road to hoe.
My new interest in Duran Duran was just the tip of the iceberg. Becoming cool took on great importance. Cool in the way no one else I knew was. After being mesmerized by Missing Persons on "Solid Gold", I played with food coloring in an attempt to achieve pink and blue hair. I had to be new wave, unfortunately my hair was much too dark for that (it was only a matter of time before I discovered the magic of Sun-InŞ, though).
Being a Duranie was like being a member of an exclusive club. I was so impressed with the 8th graders who showed up the day after the D2 show with tour shirts. Duran Duran came to Seattle in '83, (a 3 hour drive) but I didn't even bother trying to convince my mom to let me go (I couldn't even walk 8 blocks to the neighborhood convenience store, alone). When complimented on my pins or my D2 plastered pee-chees by the older girls, I felt like I was in heaven. All the kids-in-the-know were a part of it, but I was on my own. Virtually no one in my grade shared my fixation.
It pained me to hear a bunch of girls discussing D2 at a church youth group. I was a fountain of information, but no one would've ever suspected because I was always so quiet. It got to the point where I couldn't stand it any longer and I piped in about Simon LeBon's wife, Yasmin. They were amazed, "You like Duran Duran?!" After that exchange, I was included in their conversations, which was of little importance since I stopped attending church shortly thereafter.
This is very silly, but I can remember the exact day I decided to "come out" as a Duranie. Due to a school vacation, I had plenty of free time to goof-off and experiment with new looks. I guess I was always a little frumpy and chunky, with limp hair that didn't even feather. Well, I decided that was going to be the old me. While getting ready for Girl Scouts (yes, at 11 I was getting a little old for that business) I impulsively put a shit-load of gel in my wet hair and swooped it all to one side, letting my bangs hang in my face. Then I proceeded to get mildly creative with the make-up (I was lucky in this regard, a lot of my friends weren't even allowed to wear make-up). It seemed so radical. I was scared. What would everyone (well, not everyone, the Girl Scouts) think?! I started to comb it out, but my ride showed up early and I had to leave with my new 'do intact. The other girls in the car immediately noticed my transformation. Surprisingly, they liked it and I felt strangely invigorated.
Progressively cultivating a new image was only a minor step in my Duran mania. I'd never known anything like it. It consumed me. Faithfully, I purchased "Bop!", "Star Hits", and "16" to get the latest scoop. I made a point of knowing all there was to know about the five members: favorite colors, pets' names, parents' names, heights, weights, these were just a fraction of what I knew. Every picture no matter how tiny had to be clipped out. If a name was mentioned in print, the text had to be cut-out and saved. All TV appearances had to be taped. There was an endless supply of merchandise to be had: books, calendars, posters, pins. It was impossible to keep up (especially on a $2 a week allowance) but I tried my hardest.
My Michael Jackson and Prince loving friends thought I was a freak, but they tolerated me. I constantly put up with the abuse of everyone calling my boys fags. Oh, it was painful, all right, but it made me the tough person I am today. Actually, I did have one semi-Duranie friend, but she was into Roger, the most "guy" out of all of them. I didn't understand it. I was completely in love with the bass player, John Taylor. He was tall, scrawny, with tousled, colored hair, and plenty of make-up that you know I dug. I seriously thought I was going to marry him. Yeah, I know it's a little ridiculous for a 12 yr. old to think she could win the affections of a 24 yr. old superstar. But John did end up marrying a woman a whole year younger than me (granted, this was in 1992, not 1984 and she was an adult) actress/model, Amanda DeCadenet. Kids, never give up on your dreams.
It was terrible. They were all dating models and I hated their wives and girlfriends (Don't think I was too maladjusted. Disliking D2's love interests was practically an unwritten law for Duranies). I came to the conclusion that the only way I'd ever get to meet John was if I were a model too. This became a mini-obsession in itself. Though I was always the tallest in my class, at 11 I was only 5'6 and I'd heard that models must be 5'8 minimum. It was a disheartening predicament to be in. I opted for the obvious solution-praying. That's right, every single night I'd pray for God to take care of all five members of Duran Duran. This I'd been doing for a while, but I added the plea to grow 2 inches to my nightly routine (I'm currently only 5'7. God must've punished me for being so asinine). I went overboard. God wasn't moving fast enough for me so I took matters into my own hands. At first I wouldn't eat meat, then I would try not to eat, period. I earned the privilege of being able to skip breakfast, which made my younger sister jealous (oh, the benefits of being the oldest). I compulsively exercised-2 hours, daily minimum, usually more. It worked. I became skinny, but it didn't make anyone like me any more than before, and it certainly didn't get the attention of John Taylor. The guys at school still thought I was a freak and ridiculed me (when fights would erupt, I'd always be the one sent to the office. Yes, I'm still bitter). They were mere unenlightened boys in my mind, though. I had a higher purpose.
It's still amazing to me how totally a fixation can consume and change your entire perspective (and life). Really, my Duran Duran fetish was all meshed together with a more general transformation, that of a kid into...I don't know...a teen. It would've happened anyway, but I was conscious of what was occurring. Middle school was an odd time for everyone probably. All my thoughts and actions revolved around them; eating, sleeping, spending. I'd kiss my posters before going to sleep at night and play D2 sheet music on the piano during the day. It truly was a mania. Looking back on it, the funny thing is how short-lived this period of my life was, roughly spanning from 1983-1986. I've just about spent that much time writing about Henry Thomas already (o.k. half as much time). But this was different and unprecedented.
At some point reality had to set in. After "Seven and the Ragged Tiger" they started to suck, or maybe I was just losing interest. No, they forced this sentiment when they splintered into Power Station and Arcadia. I still wasn't quite ready to give it up though. My attention turned from John, who'd become too rockin', to Nick Rhodes, the girlie one. In 8th grade I started wearing my make-up like his; pale-faced, with heavy eye liner and mauve-white lipstick (Wet n Wild #506, still a bargain at 99˘). A friend, Valida, and I entered "Star Hit's" Nick Rhodes coloring contest and sadly lost (who knows why, maybe it had something to do with her using cream cheese for his hair). Though we resided within walking distance of one another, we'd make mini-magazines and create contests of our own involving Nick, and mail them to each other. We became inventive, creating personas for ourselves, Dr. Pardeau and Madame Green. Nick Rhodes was merely the vehicle that spawned these correspondences (I recently found some and they were surprisingly funny). I guess that boredom and isolation lends to er, "creativity", if that's what you want to call it. This is ridiculous, but sometimes I almost miss the restrictiveness of being a kid. Then you had to be very resourceful and imaginative if you wanted to occupy yourself. As an adult there aren't any excuses for doing nothing. Now, if I ever get to feeling trapped or unproductive, I can't go blaming my shitty small town or my mean parents. It's up to me (God, I hate responsibility).
During this period Duran Duran got back together for the "Notoriou"s album, but it wasn't the same. I hate to use cliches (I'm lying) but the magic really was gone. Around 1987 or so, they came to town with David Bowie's "Glass Spider Tour". At 15, I was old enough to attend, but could care less.
It's a big jump from the age of 11 to the age of 14. Everyone changes, and my tastes have always been particularly fickle. Through an "accelerated program" I was able to attend high school for a couple periods a day during 8th grade. This opened my eyes to new set of possibilities. While I still had (and still have) a soft-spot in my heart for pretty boys, skaters started seeming pretty cool. Combat boots and flannels took on an allure previously lacking. Duran Duran signified things that were glamorous and artificial, and this wasn't what I wanted to be about anymore. Like many a teen, I went through various phases, never sticking with one for more than a couple of years, each fad eventually became passe-Goth, grunge, indie-kid, so on and so forth, infinity. Throughout each episode I experienced countless infatuations, celebrity and otherwise, monumental and insignificant. However, I don't think that any have compared to the magnitude of my bout with Duran fever. Like they say, you always remember your first.
I had given D2 almost no thought since 1985 (I say almost because I do remember a brief mention in "S.C.S". #1 about buying a Japanese Duran Duran book. It seemed rash at the time, but now it makes sense). Then a few months back, my friend, Jessica (a reformed Duranie) and I, somehow started getting on a D2 kick in a big way. I'm not even sure how it all started, but it snowballed in no time. We dragged out the D2 board game, pulled out posters, dredged up pins, and reminisced while watching old videos on Beta. We're currently in the process of getting, LeBon, our D2 cover band up and running (we're not making much concrete progress in the rehearsal department, but we've got our set list written up and have bought items for our wardrobe-she's John, I'm Nick. Any proud and willing Simons out there?!) This recent rediscovery has provided more hours of fun and entertainment than just about anything else I've been into for ages (other than Hank, of course). I've been faithfully checking all the D2 web pages (there's actually a good number of them) and have subscribed to "Firedancer", an electronic newsletter for Duranies. It's even come to the point that I've given serious thought to a D2 tattoo (!) When I was supposed to be looking for Henry info at a used periodicals store, I caught myself digging through back issues of "Keyboard" magazine (I did find one from '86 with Nick Rhodes on the cover. And yes, I bought and read the damn thing).
What I think this all means is that no matter how much you change and how much you think you've moved on, all your experiences remain within you, at least in some capacity-even the bad ones There's no ridding yourself of them. It just takes time to put everything into perspective and to accept the terrible truth. If when I was 17, for instance, someone brought up D2 I'd be horrified (I distinctly recall a friend's boyfriend, now husband, pulling up in my driveway blaring D2's "My Own Way". It was the source of a great deal of ridicule and laughter from me and my sister). Then it was still too fresh, but it wasn't over and done with, it was merely dormant. But now, at 24, I think Duran Duran is a perfectly fine and wonderful topic for any conversation. Who would've known. And you don't have to give up one fixation for another, you can be as compulsive as your heart desires. Sure, I've been entertaining peculiar notions concerning Nick Rhodes lately (I really think we could be good friends. Seriously) but Henry Thomas is by no means out of the picture. The more the merrier.
Over the years I've done terrible, stupid, thoughtless, harmful, and occasionally funny things all in the name of obsession. There's no changing my past, and I don't see myself changing for the better any time soon. I'm going to have to accept the fact that I thrive on pointless detail and enjoy getting caught up with individuals I don't know and may never know. The whole process becomes so engaging that the subject is almost of no importance. (and I do stress the almost. If I ever start getting sweet on that Urkel kid-slap me silly). I think I've said a lot, probably more than you wanted to hear. With everything now said and done, I'll let you ponder the enormity of all this nonsense. Meanwhile, I've got a "New Moon on Monday" video calling my name.
There's no need for shame any longer, share your Duran Duran tales of woe and wonder with me. I hate to ostracize such a large portion of my readership (not really. I've been doing it with H.T. for ages) but I'm curious about your experiences. This was a particular phenomena, primarily affecting middle to upper-class white females who would now be somewhere between the ages of 20 and 27 [this was written in '96]. Male and minority Duanies were far and few between, so atypical Duranies are especially encouraged to respond. You could also write to tell me how much D2 sucked, but then I'd have to hurt you.
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