Picture This: Debbie Harry And Blondie
[ author: mick rock ]
 I think it's safe to say that at the peak of her career, back in the 1980s, you'd be hard pressed to find someone that didn't fantasize about fucking Debbie Harry; male or female, straight or gay. Her slutty hotness appealed to every walk of life and defined cool. But as a rule of thumb I try not to keep tabs on celebrities I lusted for in my younger years for the sheer fact that no one ages gracefully (except Dolly Parton) and I don't want to taint the image in my head of the way they were.
That said, when I was offered all access tickets to see Blondie last summer in Chicago I almost refused to go. I hadn't seen a current photo of Debbie Harry in nearly 20 years and I didn't want to accidentally bump into some elderly woman with a walker and a colostomy bag and say, "Pardon me, madam. Could you tell me where I can find the lovely Debbie Harry," only to have her remove her oxygen mask and say, "That's me," and have her try and force her wrinkled tongue in my mouth. Not only would it have induced instant vomiting (I can only imagine old tongues are really, really leathery) but it would've forced me to go home and burn all my Blondie records and make anyone in my circle of friends vow never, ever to mention her name again.
Luckily my friends aren't as oblivious as I am and have kept up on Debbie Harry. They convinced me I'd be pleasantly surprised when I saw her. They told me she held together like most American Muscle; a little wear and tear, but overall a solid piece of machinery. So I went and as we drove to the venue I drifted off, imagining that Debbie hadn't aged a day since awkwardly rapping with Fab 5 Freddy. I drenched my thoughts in her angelic, milky white skin, becoming intoxicated from the smell of her golden locks. "Debbie. What shampoo is that..." I thought to her, as she flashed me a coy little smile, "It doesn't matter, I love you."
"Chris!" My friend stole me back and asked what I'd been thinking about.
Ignoring him I asked the lot of them, "If you had a chance to bed down with Debbie Harry tonight would you? Not really knowing what she looks like these days, just going off the memory that's burned into your head, would you sleep with her?" You'd think we were a car full of choirboys and not skateboarders the way we sung the word, "Yes," in unison. Then we saw her. The curtain opened, the house lights found her and had the band not already begun playing then the entire audience would have heard the sounds of our hearts breaking. She was old. She was no longer the girl we'd fallen in love with. Her skin hung lose on her face and arms like a perfectly cooked spare rib, her mini skirt was far too short for anyone her age and the worst of it? She had panty lines! Panty lines are sexy only with sweatpants or business casual. But these weren't cute, ass-defining panty lines. She was wearing big granny panties. I wanted to cry for her. Is there anything grosser than grandma panties? I wanted to rush the stage, rip them off her, use them as a sail and sail off to some faraway land where I would never have to think of the horror I saw that night. But it was too late, the damage had been done.
So I broke up with Debbie Harry that night and haven't thought about her since. Until Mick Rock's new book of Debbie Harry photographs, Picture This, arrived last week. Opening it, seeing all the photos of Debbie Harry back when we were in love felt oddly familiar, like when your ex comes by and drops off the box of belongings, gifts, photos and memories that plagued her life, reminding her of you. Oh, a photo of us at the park. Our boarding passes from Hawaii. God, what was I thinking with that moustache? Hey! Who's that guy? And why is he naked, wearing my tie? Leafing through the pages something began to pull on my heartstrings. Was I falling in love with Debbie all over again? Maybe I was too hasty, maybe I could have been a bit more understanding. Pictures don't lie. She looked more and more perfect with each page. I should call her. Maybe we could get some sushi. Maybe we'll have amazing make-up sex and she'll see I've changed.
Who am I kidding? Even if we did get back together it wouldn't mean anything, it would just be one night of raw, detached sex. Nothing more. We're both different people than we were in the 80s. But one thing hasn't changed; I still think old people are gross and the reality is Debbie ain't no spring chicken anymore. I'll always have the memories though. They can't take that away from me.
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