Video Vault: Garbage 'Stupid Girl'

By


Shirley stormed onto the scene with fire-red hair, eyeliner, creamy skin, and lyrics from that time. She was perfect for the 90s, stylish, with sharp edges, and irreverent, chic, and she had swagger like the big boys with an added vulnerability that made her irresistible. For young girls, she got it. This was when Riot Grrrls came stomping onto the scene in our combat boots, delicate dresses, attitudes, creativity, punk sensibilities, and feminism. 3rd wave feminism had to happen. We needed to reclaim our bodies and agency. We needed to fight. We needed to be loud and heard, and we had opinions. Loads of them. I feel sorry for those who had never experienced the pre-911 world; it was different and expressive, unhindered by somber introspection and fear. Believe me, the 90s were fantastic.

I would sit in my room and listen to Shirley like she was my friend, and I got a real kick because the boys backed her, and it was all about her. Without Shirley, there would be no Garbage. Shirley was the anti-Spice Girl, much like me, she didn't simper and was fine if you didn't love her music. She refused to overtly sexualize herself, she refused to be controlled, and she was taking no shit from anyone. And the red lipstick. It was one of my inspirations, not Gwen; it was old Hollywood and Shirley. 

It was the days of zines, DIY music, activism, and political involvement. We were young girls who gave a damn, and we were informed. My roots are here. Shirley played a role. Her middle finger was our middle finger. 


Photo Credit: BMG

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

PECKERWOOD'S WEEKLY LUNOCRACY POST! For the Week of 7/28/2025 ( 80s Politics, The Reagan Era and Thatcher's Britain)

By
Image
The Reagan era — a time when the American Dream got a perm, Wall Street got high on its own supply, and compassion was drowned in a jacuzzi at Studio 54.

 This was the decade when *greed* wasn’t just good — it was federally endorsed. When your country told you that if you weren’t rich, healthy, or white with a good TV smile, you probably deserved whatever hell you were living through. AIDS? Ignore it. Crack epidemic? Criminalize it. Union workers? Fire ‘em. Trees? Cut ‘em. Poor people? Trickle something on them and call it economics.  Ronald Reagan sold optimism the way televangelists sell salvation: loud, rehearsed, and with a suspicious bank account offshore. “It’s morning in America,” he beamed, like some kind of demented cheerleader for a dying empire — while actual Americans were waking up to layoffs, homelessness, and lethal indifference.

 Don’t have healthcare? Bootstraps. Can’t afford college? Bootstraps. Your rent is half your income? Pull harder, baby.

 Meanwhile, Nanc...
Read more

OPEN POST: Would You Ride Siren's Curse?

By
Image
Siren's Curse is the newest roller coaster ride at Cedar Point amusement park in Ohio. The attraction, which opened at the end of June, is the first tilt coaster in the USA. This means that it has a section of track that disconnects from its starting position, turns 90 degrees, and attaches to a steep decline track. But last week, the ride came to a stop mid-tilt, stranding its passengers. This is the fourth time that this has happened since the ride opened! The park's spokesman says that this is due to the ride's safety system restarting, and says it's the equivalent to a check-engine light. Riders had to safely exit the coaster before it could resume. Would you ride on Siren's Curse after so many incidents in its first month of operation? Are you a roller coaster junkie or do you prefer safer amusement park rides? Source: UPI, Cedar Point amusement park
Read more

OPEN POST: 1980s Dinner Party

By
Image
The party is already in full, frothy swing when you arrive, and you're 45 minutes late. Welcome to Greenwich Village, mid-1980s, and Elkie’s apartment is packed tighter than a cocaine executive’s day planner. Her duplex walk-up smells like Campari, Shalimar, and hair products. The stereo's blasting the Talking Heads at an anxiety-inducing volume, and someone’s brought a ferret. It’s wearing a leather collar. Naturally. Elkie herself—daughter of a dubious, possibly fascist German businessman and a former Miss Switzerland runner-up—is gliding around in a backless gold lamé number and neon green heels. She has the posture of a disco giraffe and the voice of a chain-smoking dove. She never blinks. No one knows what she *does*, but everyone knows she’s *done* things. Legendary things. She curates chaos. Warhol is in the corner, snapping Polaroids with slow, skeletal movements. Basquiat’s tagging the inside of Elkie’s coat closet with a Sharpie he stole from the hostess stand at Danc...
Read more