Whatever Happened to....
- Stacie Jones Huckeba
You know, my new affiliation with this site has really taken me down memory lane. I've been in touch with people
I haven't talked to in years, I've looked at pictures I haven't seen in ages and I've listened to songs I haven't
heard in decades. All of this nostalgia has made me realize that my personal memory lane is more like a congested
eight lane freeway through LA, than the quaint winding road through the country that your imagination conjures up
when it hears that phrase.
Man, I really used to be cool. Not as cool as say, Joey C. Jones, but I was really cool. Whatever happened to that girl? I
used to roam the streets at night with wild friends, hellbent on partying harder than we partied the night before. I
used to get into shows for free, I used to meet bands, I used to get guys and I used to go to all the parties. I never had a job,
I never had an alarm clock and I never said things like, "no thanks, I need to go home. I have a huge presentation tomorrow."
Whatever happened to my generation? We got tattooed and pierced and vowed to Rock-n-Roll all Night and Party Everyday. We were never
going to cave like those losers from the 70's who traded in their Led Zeppelin albums for day jobs and day-care. Yet, even I who
I still say was really cool, get up every morning and put on another pair of slacks to hide the giant tattooed bands around my
ankles, so that I can head off to my corporate job downtown.
I'm not the only one. Just about everyone I know is in the same situation. Jana has two kids, Robyn has three. These are the
same girls I used to run off to New Orleans with at 4:00 in the morning, just because we were wild and drunk. These are the
same girls that I used to find myself in more "Shit! Run!" scenarios than I can count. These girls are now mommies with car
seats and cabinets full of cheerios. Their husbands are car salesmen and restaurant managers.
And just who are these conservative, corporate gentlemen that stole my big-haired, red lipstick wearing homies away? Well, Robyn
married the bass player from one of the cool bands in town and Jana landed one of those smoking hot Lunn twins who every girl
I knew wanted. So, it's not just us girls who have succumbed, it has happened to the guys too.
Whatever happened to guys like Johnny Solinger? He was one of the most raucous pricks I ever knew. I know he became the
singer for Skid Row. That's cool, except no one listens to Skid Row anymore. Of course, what do you expect when instead
of headlining arenas, your predecessor is now wearing a robe and performing in theaters across the country in a low budget
production of Jesus Christ Superstar?
I actually fed that beast and went to see it. He was really good, but you know, as convincing as his homo-erotic relationship with
Judas was; I couldn't help wishing he'd rip off that robe to unveil skin tight leather pants and bust into a loud rendition of
Youth Gone Wild. John Lennon once said that the Beatles were bigger than Jesus, well Sebastian Bach actually became Jesus.
Oh, here's a good one. What the holy hell happened to Ozzy? There's a mess that even Swiffer doesn't have an answer for. He was our
leader, our king, our black prince. Then one day we turned on the TV to find the Oz-man a trembling, babbling, cluster incapable
of even pouring a glass of orange juice for himself. God, please don't tell me that's our future. Can't you just picture it?
We'll be a bunch of pierced and tattooed tragedies who can't remember anything except the chorus for Crazy Train. Our grandkids
are really in for a trip.
Whatever happened to all of those wild 20 something year olds who stomped around in Doc Martins and only needed enough cash for a can
of Aqua-Net and five dollars worth of generic draft on quarter beer night? I see you all out there. I see you in the grocery stores
giggling when you hear a Bon Jovi song translated into Muzak. I see you in your SUV's blaring Pearl Jam and Alice in Chains when you
think no one is looking. I see you pick up and caress the re-release of Alanis Morissette's, Jagged Little Pill in Starbucks.
Just today, I saw a 30 something year old business lady walking across the street. There was something oddly familiar about her, maybe
her stance, maybe her attitude, either way; I was studying this familiar stranger, when I spotted it. Quietly tucked away on the
inside of her right ankle was the black ink reminder of a life far away. We are a marked generation.
Here is the point in the little articles where the writer is supposed to get all nostalgic and long for the exhilarating days gone by.
Sorry kids, hate to blow it for ya, but I'm just fine where I'm at. Whatever happened to me? I grew up and old and I adore the way it
all turned out. I feel like I'll be young forever, partly because of the wild child I was, way back then.
I love the fact that I get up everyday and cover my tats, so that I can drive home every evening in a comfy SUV of my own, to sit down
at my newly upgraded computer in my cozy little house and knock out an idle ramble like this. I wouldn't trade my French Syrah or my
Anjeo Tequila for quarter beer night. I wouldn't trade the friends I've made and the respect I've earned for a wild night out with
a famous band. And although I chose to forgo that whole procreation thing, myself; I wouldn't trade the sweet faces of my friend's
children for anything in the world.
Life's good and it's been a kick-ass ride. Of course, I do have one dirty little secret. Every now and then, when the timing is just
right or the moon is full, I still go out, get wild and drunk and at some point, I almost inevitably yell "Shit! Run!".
Jones is currently working in San Diego as a photographer & promotions director.
You can visit her website at