I just finished watching the documentary, “Mayor Of The Sunset Strip,” (2003) about Rodney Bingenheimer, AKA Rodney on the Rock, if you listened to KROQ in the 80’s. Rodney was, really, the linchpin of that time period’s alternative music scene and broke just about every band you know from then. Unfortunately, but maybe importantly, the film comes across as a sad little story about a sad little man. But while it might not have done service to Rodney, for me it was a coming home.
In 1985-ish, I threw myself off a cliff. I was 17 and I’d gotten a shit score on my SAT. In my mind, I’d thought I’d fucked up so badly that my life was ruined. And there was good cause for that belief.
There was a lot of academia in my family, but it spread out in various ways. We didn’t have that doctor through-line. There wasn’t a history of educators. But what we had was a high demand for some kind of success. It’s common in Jewish families. You’re expected to be a critical, independent thinker. Take whatever road you want, but be out front.
My older sister was like that: perfect grades, private school, skipped eleventh grade. I didn’t know what road I was on and I certainly wasn’t the smartest one on it. I was a B+ student. But I wasn’t really a B+ student, I was the…
