Yesterday I heard Barry Manilow; today I heard the Psychedelic Furs. I think we all know that means I have to talk about the movie Pretty in Pink again.

Except not really. Though the Psychedelic Furs’ namesake song opens the film perfectly, and though Annie Potts’ rendition of “Copacabana” is cinematic gold, I’ve already talked about Andie, Duckie & Co. enough.

But over my vacation I read a book that talked about Pretty in Pink (and “Pretty in Pink”) — a book that’s a spiritual cousin to this blog. Except for, you know, being a book. That someone paid someone else to write. That my library actually owned. That people (ostensibly) actually read.

The book is Talking to Girls about Duran Duran, by Rolling Stone writer Rob Sheffield, and it’s all about pop music and memory. I enjoyed it quite a lot — Sheffield is even dorkier and more sentimental than Mama Kitt and I are, and I can appreciate that. His musings are centralized to the 1980s, when he was a teenager, and deal a lot with questions of (and thwarted attempts at) coolness, but also reveal his strong affection for his family, especially his sisters. Each chapter is (sometimes very loosely) organized around one pop song, making the book easy to digest in small pieces — perfect for vacation.

And that … is my bland review. I can’t believe I can’t summon more to say about the book than that. I truly enjoyed it, but part of me – blinded by our own beloved blog — couldn’t help seeing it for all the ways it wasn’t Auto Tunes. I wanted more, I wanted less at times, I wanted … this.  That’s all: I was jealous. Old Rob got a book out of music and memory, and we haven’t got one, and it’s as unfair as Blaine dumping Andie because his mama said so.

Sigh. Apparently I am as pouty as Molly Ringwald today.

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