“I had always ached to have a best female friend. Being an awkward and bookish child made it difficult for me to make friends in my tiny New Hampshire hometown, which prized a certain vapid gregariousness in its girl children. My oddness was off-putting to my more conventional female classmates, yet I wasn’t quite trashy-fun enough for the girls who were experimenting with heavy metal, heavy petting, and raiding their parents’ liquor cabinets. In high school, I befriended a clique of misfits with whom I smoked cloves and hung out with in Taco Bell parking lots, but a serious best friend still eluded me. In that pre-internet stone age, I read and reread books on the Warhol Factory and the early New York punk scenes and fantasized about having a comrade-in-arms with whom to crash loft parties and create art happenings. Within that liminal space of the 1990s, between the fall of the Berlin Wall and the fall of the Twin Towers, there was a sense of living in an age of no particular historical importance. Our images captured on disposable cameras we never developed and VHS tapes left to rot in attics, we were the last youths to be unrecorded by an internet that never forgets…”
Read the rest on The New North.