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Listening Across the Generational Divide
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Date: Dec 25, 2000 Sunday, December 24, 2000 A Guilty Mom Confesses A Pleasure By Mollie Fermaglich Forgive me, father, and, while I'm at it, might as well throw in my mother, siblings, daughter and all other relatives, both immediate and those I see only at weddings, bar mitzvahs and unveilings. Forgive me, friends I partied with in college, all of whom will view the transgression I am about to reveal as a result of sever head trauma. Forgive me, current friends and business relations, who will all undoubtedly deny having ever known me. I'm sure this is good for the soul, though somehow I think it would be easier to confess having unnatural thoughts about sheep. I can't dress it up, play it down, defend or rationalize it any longer, so I'll just come out and say it: I love the Backstreet Boys! This burden grows heavier with each passing day. Within a matter of eight months, I have gone from middle-age mom who couldn't tell the difference between the Backstreet Boys and any other boy band, past or present, to some sort of maniacal freak who can tell you the first and last names of each band member; which "boy" is singing what vocals on which track; and every word to every song on each of their CD's: "Backstreet Boys," "Millennium" and their latest, fabulous release, "Black and Blue" (which entered the charts a few weeks ago at No. 1, but who's counting?). I didn't know as much about the Beatles, who made me swoon, cry, and play "Revolution 9" backward a gazillion times, as I do about Brian (B-Rok), Kevin (leader of the band), Howie (Howie D.), Nick (the cute, blond one), and A.J. (for Alexander James, but his nickname is Bone). Like many sinners, I have been racked with guilt and steeped in pain. How could something like this happen to someone as perpetually cool as I? In my teens, I read Brautigan, Vnnegut, Kesey. I listened to Hendrix and The Who, the Kinks, the Stones, the Dead. I love the films of Louis Malle and Woody Allen, and I'll take Dostoyevsky and Flaubert over anything contemporary except, maybe, Saul Bellow. I am neither sad nor sentimental: I've never pressed a flower or dedicated a love song in my life, and I would rather drink lip bleach than send anyone a greeting card "just because." I have the patience of a 2-year-old yet had no problem redialing Ticketmaster for hours on recent Saturday morning, in hopes of getting tickets to the Backstreet Boys' coming "Black and Blue" tour. I got 'em. And you can't have 'em. So you see, my penchant for anything Backstreet Boys is, well, it's so wrong. Not only am I alarmed by my disconcerting, deviant behavior, but I must also ask forgiveness for the myriad other sins this sin has begotten. I have lied. Repeatedly. For consistently pretending, in the presence of anyone over the age of 14, that I couldn't pick the Backstreet Boys out of a police lineup, to telling the undergraduates I teach at New York University that I'm listening to "Dark Side of the Moon" on my portable CD player when I am, in fact, blasting "I Want It That Way." I have stolen. O.K., I put back my daughter's videos ("Backstreet Boys All Access" and "A Night Out With the Backstreet Boys") before she realizes they're missing, but more often than occasionally abscond with them. She still hasn't missed the Backstreet Boys pen I "borrowed." Or her "Millennium Tour" key chain. Or the sheet of Backstreet Boys nail tattoos. I have cheated. Yes, I conned my daughter out of one of her to VH-1's "Men Strike Back" concert, featuring Sting, Tom Jones, Christina Aguilera and - oh, did I forget to mention? - the Backstreet Boys. "If only I could see Sting perform live once," I said, appealing to my daughter's sense of guilt-laden gratitude for letting her go to a concert on a school night. "I would die happy." That was me, in the 27th row, trying to conceal my elation as the boys took the stage. I have coveted. It's not any of my neighbors' possessions that I want. It's my daughter's Backstreet Boys posters, calendar, T-shirts and, most of all, this extremely cool Backstreet Boys watch. Not one of those cheesy digital fast-food giveaways, but a swell quartz with a thick leather band, the face a fabulous photo of all five boys. I bought it for her, but darn it, I want it! I want to wear it to meetings, to the laundry room, to dinner with any friends who would be seen in public with an adult woman sporting a Backstreet Boys watch. I'll just have to wait it out. I know that when she goes off to college, my daughter will leave behind that watch, along with other adolescent mementos. And then it will be mine. I have had impure thoughts. As someone who gets nauseous at the mere thought of the film "Harold and Maude," this is quite a cross for me to bear. I am old enough to be the mother of at least four of the five Backstreet Boys and am, in fact, older than Nick Carter's mom. But, before you alert the authorities, let's keep things in perspective. If Jimmy Carter can lust in his heart, if Billy Bob Thorton can marry Angelina Jolie, if Tony Randall can make babies with a woman young enough to be his granddaughter, then certainly I can acknowledge how gosh-darn attractive these boys are. And I'll stop right there. Is there anything else, you ask? Only that I love their music, their moves, their style. I love their perfect harmonies and angelic voices. This must be a pure love, because I can even overlook the fact that one of their songs was written by the grammatically challenged (with lyrics like "As you get to know me a little more better" and "Does his friends get on your time?"). There. That wasn't so bad. Pretty cathartic, in fact. And so, I will go in peace. Until Feb. 5, at Nassau Coliseum, where I'll be screaming, along with who-knows-how-many teenage girls, "Nick, I love you!" Ohmygod. I am so psyched! Mollie Fermaglich writes for the movies and television and teaches writing at the Tisch School of the Arts at New York University. To e-mail a letter to the editor, write to letters@nytimes.com.
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