Oh, 1998. My little Bradley was a sprite, wholesome 14-year-old who could do no wrong, so when he begged and begged me to buy him something about a “Limp Bizkit,” I first thought…well, I first thought it doesn’t sound very appetizing! I’m sorry: sometimes my mischievous streak gets the best of me.
Anyhow, I eventually decided that anything with a masked man in a ball cap emblazoned on its cover needed a mother’s thorough scrutiny before it reached the ears of an impressionable teenager. At first, I cringed: these weren’t the beautiful odes I remember from bands like The Monkees!
Then, there it was on track three: the shattered bits of a broken heart. I didn’t know the song’s title, but I could just sense it: it was rap-rock of the soul, forged in Shakespeare’s mind and put to paper by a forlorn Frederick Durst. Forsaken — nay, utterly betrayed! — by his homies, whom he no doubt trusted to protect the honor of his girlie, he had to journey onward, find meaning again, and put back together what remained of his belief in goodness.
I delighted in such a brave show of emotion from a man with such a rough exterior. Suddenly, though, like the fires at the Great Library of Alexandria, a careless traffic maneuver by my husband Robert jettisoned the Discman from my hand and, much like Frederick’s heart, there lied a broken disc that I would soon replace, but never had to listen to again.
Because the beauty was already so apparent. Why, oh why, would this young man suffer the infidelity of some shrew, running off with his pay when the fellas came to play, if not for a deeper fire burning within? He didn’t do it for a partner in conversation, social status, or the empty coffers of lust — clearly, as far this lady’s concerned, he did all…for love. I knew I would be honored if my impressionable Bradley ever displayed such a commitment to a partner in life.
“A reject”? “Dwelling on the past?” These are so-called ‘errors’ of many a great protagonist who, in the end, was a happy, better man for the trials they endured and from which they discovered…passion. Thinking back, my heart beats in joy that I could sleep easy in the knowledge that my son was learning all this — and only for $15.99 at Best Buy! Oh, how I miss those innocent moments of the late 90s.
Perhaps one day I’ll discover otherwise about Mr. Durst’s intentions, but in the meantime, the light inside me shines brightly for the unrelenting passion with which he pursued an affair of such personal significance. It reminds me of that Kid Rock song, where he rescues a distressed woman from her tyrannical husband, thus painting his town red and painting her — in, I simply must presume, the beautiful, tactile manner of a French Impressionist — white.
