*sigh* My bubble has been burst.
My darling, being the darling that he is, was kind enough to post a link to the official Nina Hagen homepage in response to my recent dream. “Cool,” I thought to myself. “This’ll be a chance for me to catch up with one of my teenage idols. I wonder what she’s doing now….”
Things started out pretty well. In fact, one of the first images that caught my eye was a Polaroid of Nina posing a la Jonno:
Cute, no? Charming. Just a bit edgy. Like, in a cute and charming sort of way. Nina version 4.0: upgraded for your pleasure–and hers.
I mean, we all know her recent music has sucked ass (though the title track from her last album kinda rocks), but she’s still touring and stuff. At least in Europe. Well, parts of Europe. Parts where the popular taste in music tends to gravitate toward low-rent Britneys and such. (FYI: French and Italian discos are far more horrific than even a Mississippi prison.) Anyway, she’s still kicking. That’s my point.
Apparently, though, her kicks have gotten a little lower these days:
Now, I can’t read German at all, but I think there’s very little to misunderstand here. The meaning is far too clear. Therefore….
A Postcard to Nina Hagen
Dear Nina:
Hi there! Remember me? Goofy little backwoods fag? Duran Duran hair? Oh, I’m sure you do–assuming those particular brain cells are still around. I bet you haven’t ridden inside a Ford F150 since.
We used to have some really good times, you and I. Like when I went to my first gay bar at 14 and my soon-to-be friend Tracy was performing “New York, New York” and his makeup was eerily close to your own. And when we used to go on debate trips together, and we’d drive the whole team crazy with endless repeats of “What It Is” and “Atomic Flash Deluxe,” but because we were driving the van, they couldn’t do shit. And then when I lost my virginity to side A of Flex…. Oh, wait. That wasn’t you, it was Lene Lovich. Sorry. TMI, I know.
Anyway, I wanted to apologize for not keeping in touch and everything. You know, the 90s were a big growing lesson for me. I learned that some places of employment don’t like to hire people with pink hair. Well, at least they didn’t in 1991. And I found that when I was trying to convince customers they look great in $700 cashmere catsuits (I mean, who would? They should know better, right?), they grew uneasy if I cranked up the volume on “Smack Jack” and started lip synching up and down the aisles of the store. And so I changed. Sorry. It happens.
Now, don’t you go giving me that smug look, little miss schadenfreude. You changed, too. Remember a little diddy called “Gorbachev Rap”? A certain album by the name of Bee Happy? Shall I continue? Bottom line, we’ve both seen our ups and downs.
But honey, I had no idea you were so bad off that you needed to start a psychic hotline. Okay, like, maybe in Europe they’re more accepted or whatever, but your fans in the States–they’d be crushed. Do you really want to hurt that many aging Gen-Xers? Do you really want to make them cry?
Let me ask you something: have you ever heard of Esther Rolle? She was once like you. A right-on woman. Empowered. Sought-after. For several seasons, she was on one of the top-ranked sitcoms in the US.
Then she stumbled. She got desperate for work, and she started a psychic hotline. But just starting a phone scam wasn’t enough for Esther. No, she had to outdo all the other psychic hawkers and start wearing hats–not just any hats, mind you, but hideous, gut-wrenching hats.
You know where Esther is now, girl? She dead. D-E-A-D. Dead.
Now, I know what you’re thinking. You’re saying to yourself, “Well, I’m Nina Hagen, that can’t happen to me,” but sugar, lemme ask you: what is that on your head? What is that? Answer me! You know what it is! It’s a fucking hat, woman! You’re running a goddamn psychic hotline and you’re wearing a hat. You might as well just chain yourself to Margot Kidder and Kevin Costner and start skipping across the autobahn ’cause you are asking for it girl. Chew on some cyanide, if that’s what you’re after.
I’m asking you nicely. It’s for your own good: cut the damn phone lines today. If you need my help, I’m here for you. We can get through this together. We can play canasta and watch junkies (but only watch, because that heroin crap is played out) and drink Heineken, if you like. Whatever it takes. I’m here for you. Please call today; there’s no per-minute charge on my line, liebling.
I’ll talk to you soon.
–Richard
sturtle [dot] com 