So it is time again to delve into my dark past, into the closet which remains permanently open but into which people are too scared to look. It is time to go through the Debbie Gibson phenomenon which has to some extent dominated parts of my life over the past fifteen years.

It started when I was thirteen, sitting at home innocently enough on a Saturday morning watching Video Hits and singing along to ‘C&C music factory’ and a little bit of ‘Milli Vanilli’ who were blaming everything on the rain if I remember correctly. I was feeling a bit disillusioned with Milli Vanilli and their lack of willingness to accept responsibility for anything when they wouldn’t just blame the rain but also tried to make sure the girl wouldn’t forget their number without going to the trouble of writing down hers just in case.

Unsure of where the world was headed and sitting back munching on my Wheat Bix with the disillusion only a true Gen-Xer can summon (or so pepsi told me) I was suddenly awakened. There she was, sitting at her piano in a huge house singing about how she was lost in my eyes. I sat spellbound, totally blown away. Then the next song as if some sort of divine intervention had taken place was her again. Electric Youth, that could be me, maybe I wasn’t disillusioned, maybe pepsi has lied to me.

I bought the album and the singles and then her older album and her autobiography which folded out into a poster (I shit you not). The whole autobiography folded out into a poster of her in a tartan skirt and with her trademark bowler hat. I started buying Smash Hits magazine which is little more embarrassing for a boy than buying porn. I needed more Debbie.

It reached fever point when she came down under and didn’t come to my state, I was devastated but still lapped up every appearance she put in on television. I videotaped her on ‘Countdown Revolution’ ad was proud when I couldn’t name everyone in hr band and the dancers on stage. I even knew most of their backgrounds. But it was all soon to end.

You see whilst she was down here she me the lead singer of a crap boy band (not to be confused with non-crap boy bands which may one day happen) called David Dixon. Suddenly there were rumours, I knew they weren’t true but for two weeks in a row ‘TV Week’ (I had sunk low enough to buy TV week now which was a whole new level of low) had printed stories of how David had flown over to LA and they had a LOVE NEST. What the hell was a love nest? I so wasn’t happy. He had better not be deflowering my virginal catholic princess.

In my fit of rage I tore the articles out and sent them to the Debbie Gibson fan club which I knew was run by Debbie’s mother who I was sure would be just as upset about this as I would. This would wake those kids up. Sure enough the articles stopped, David Dixon returned home and starred in a crap version of ‘Joseph and the technicolour raincoat’ before disappearing forever off the face of the Earth.

About a month later I got a letter from the official Debbie Gibson fan club with both articles returned to me, signed with love from Debbie herself in big thick black artliner as if she wanted to thank me and recommit to our slightly deranged but nonetheless happy relationship where we never talked or met but communicated telepathically every night.

I still have that autograph and I will love Debbie although she is now Deborah Gibson and has grown up considerably. My days of all consuming love seen so far away but still so much a part of me. I still plan on seeing her love one day although possibly more likely to be as a part of a revival tour than a headlining act but I will be there front row center!

Keep Smiling

Jason

<< last - next >>