Iggy Pop, Put On A Shirt (And Other Pop Culture Atrocities)

This weekend found me in a movie theater, watching the latest movie from an actor who was a teen heartthrob when I was a teen, and who is now clinging desperately to his youth.

There were several shots of said actor in all his shirtless glory, being manly and behaving more heroically than a 50-year-old man who uses that many hair and skin products and teeth whiteners ever would. I sat in the dark with my 50-gallon drum of bubbly water and my shipping container full of popcorn (both “mediums”), and all I could think was, “This guy is still going to be doing this in twenty years, and he’ll be seventy.”

He’s not the first A-lister to stay past his welcome, obviously, and he won’t be the last. Vanity and career longevity weren’t even what was nagging at me. No, it was this: My pop culture is aging at the same rate as me.

Sometimes this is funny (like when I’m fumbling for words and I tell my kid to get her Walkman rather than her iPod) but on that day it was jarring. I’m stuck with Horrible Narcissistic Actor for the duration, regardless of whether I want to be.  Sure I can avoid his films, but every time a new one comes out I’ll be hit with the media blitz and I’ll have to confront the reality that my generation is getting older, that I am getting older. 

And eventually Horrible Narcissistic Actor will die, and people of my age will reel at the passing of time.

Just this week The Divinyls’ Chrissy Amphlett passed away, MS and breast cancer finally getting the best of her. I wasn’t the biggest Divinyls fan, but come on — she’s the “I Touch Myself” lady. She’s forever writhing and tossing her hair and — well, you know the song title — in my mind, just as Phoebe Cates is still standing on that diving board and PJ Soles is getting the Aunt Jemima Treatment. I can whip out any of those references with a crowd my age and at the very least get a smile. The same will be true when I’m 80, assuming I’m not called to Carrousel.

Pop culture makes sense to me now in a way that I always understood but never really felt. It functions as a sort of soothing background that accompanies us from cradle to grave. Pop culture provides indirect landmarks against which we can measure ourselves and how we’re doing. 

Maybe we take a perverse pleasure in the child star that washes out because, by comparison, we’re doing okay. Or maybe we only care about the wigs, wrinkles and plastic surgery of Horrible Narcissistic Actor because they reflect our own mortality. Maybe every scream of, “Iggy Pop, put on a shirt!” translates to, “Oh my God! When did I get so old?”

My grandfathers loved John Wayne and I loved John Hughes, but I don’t know that there is any real difference.  All I’m sure of is that the world doesn’t need another 20 years of Horrible Narcissistic Actor’s cruddy movies — and my generation’s music was the best.