Here's my truth, now tell me yours, nu-emo boy: you want your own perfect super-crush scratchy-voice woman with eyes like quivering mercury and hair you could drown in, don't you? You don't want those dickheads who played keep-away with your notebook in the ninth grade to like the same girls as you. If they do, they're liable to ask those girls out before you get around to it, and the next thing you know, they'll be holding hands at lunch or going to the Bright Eyes show together. This, despite the fact that you knew about Bright Eyes way before the Tonight Show appearance, for Christ's sake, unlike some guys you could name who have now felt up your crush at least once, and it's driving you completely insane. Since you are bound to the same tired old beauty standards as the rest of our sad society, though, you can't hide the light of your crush objects under a bushel forever; sooner or later, people are going to notice that the weird girl at the dance has killer gams and a smile that could stop time, and when they do, your crush will sell out before you can do anything about it. Can't you ever win? No, you can't.
What you can do is pick your pop crushes a little more carefully. You have to stop looking at their record collections first; if the Animal Collective is really all that, it'll be clear to the apple of your eye in time, and if it isn't, well, she was never yours anyway. Also, you have to stop being so fucking neurotic about sex all the time, because it's a massive turnoff and not the killer personality trait you all seem to think it is. We hardly have time to address that business here, though. We are not doctors. If you want to go on thinking that women dig guys who're practically bragging about how many times they've been rejected, be my guest. Crushworthy indie guys are a separate subject, I'm afraid, and one that indie guys like myself aren't really comfortable raising, lest we find ourselves wanting to mark up Steve Malkmus's pretty face with the blunt edge of a mint condition Slay Tracks. As to the women worthy of your unrequited pining, though — well, who doesn't love a nice list?
Melissa Reeves, actress, Days of Our Lives. There was a time when soap stars went mainstream twice a year, but that time was called "the '70s." Melissa plays Jennifer Horton, which means she's from the goody-goody side of the Days coin. If you cannot get with the Horton family mojo, I can't entirely blame you, and I direct you instead to Alison Sweeney, who, as the villainous Sami Brady, will satisfy your needs. The beautiful thing about Sami is that she won't just break your heart; she'll probably get you thrown in jail on trumped-up charges in the process, and then your martyrdom will be complete. Once the whole torrid affair is over, nobody will be the wiser, since all of your indie friends are too cool for soap operas. None of that suburban-housewife fantasy fodder for them. Meanwhile, who's hot, experienced, and available from nine to five most weekdays? The suburban housewife, genius. Some things I shouldn't have to spell out for you. |
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Kaki King, musician. The remarkable Ms. King would already be on indie-crush lists everywhere if she'd only sing about gazelles on crystal hills or something, but unfortunately for crushless indie dudes all she does is shred the fuck out of her sweet custom Adamas. Her fingerstyle technique turns my knees to jelly, and her near-invisibility on the indie radar seals the deal. She looks impossibly good in a plain red T-shirt. I am a little afraid of her. What use, after all, is an indie crush, if it isn't rooted in wide-eyed, cold-sweating fear? |
Ai, poet. Neither the monosyllabic, uncrushable nom de plume nor the fact that she's old enough to be your mother if you're of average indie-guy age should deter you from crushing, hard, on Ai, whose poetry is the most pleasant elbow ever to break your jaw in three places. I am not hopeful about poets taking the place of manga characters on indie guys' crush dance cards, but it is my social duty to tell you that a good Ai poem is more violent than all the Ghost in the Shell you can store in protective polymer sleeves. |
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Yoshida Akimi, artist. While we're on the subject of manga: I think the guys who write the checks have finally given up on trying to take Japanese comic art over the top, so it's safe to crush out on comic book artists now. Your competition for Ms. Akimi's affections will be, forgive me for this, quite stiff, since her fans are all comic book dudes, but no one said that pining hopelessly for distant semi-public figures was going to be easy, did they? Anyhow, one of the few English-language fansites dedicated to Ms. Akimi is called "Boyfruit." You do the math. |
Shin Hee Choi, IFBA Flyweight Champion. She's young. She's Korean. She can and will beat the living crap out of you. She wraps her fists with tape before going to work, because her job is to beat people up. At the end of her workday, she spits blood. She is the goddamned champion of the world, and she probably trains harder on any given Tuesday than I have trained for anything in my life. You will never hear of her again outside of this column. Be still my heart. |
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Mrs. Darnielle, my wife. Has been getting progressively hotter for ten years — longer, maybe; I can only chart the time I've known her. Can play ice hockey. Saw Uncle Tupelo. Saw Uncle Tupelo in Missouri, you guys. Is way smart in stuff like science an' stuff. Was once bitten by a beaver, and another time by a copperhead snake. Is very hot in other ways I'm not really at liberty to discuss here, so you're going to have to take my word for it, or wait for the DVD. |
So, there's a start. I can't guarantee you won't someday see one of these women on the cover of Us or People, but I feel confident in promising you at least a year or two of alone time with the crushes on this list, with the exception of my wife, at whom you are not allowed to look lest I go all crazed indie dude on you. As for me, I will be watching Ghost World again one last time before handing it over to Goodwill Industries forever. And crying my eyes out. You bastards. n°
Copyright 2005, John Darnielle and Nerve.com.