The best part happened on the way to the car:
Axl: Slash, do you think you could hold the deviled eggs?
Slash, method acting: (grunts yes)
The weirdest part of the 90s party was hearing Fiona Apple's Criminal, because it reminded me of this, uh, girl I used to know who drove around South Carolina in her rattling blue Honda, worrying about everything, so full of angst, ideas, and rage. Just on the verge of explosion, every day. I just want to give her a hug and say:
Honey, it's all going to work out okay. You can drink a little less vodka, cry fewer tears, fight with less people about the theory of evolution. And get this?! You actually become a writer. No, really. You do. No, not a poet, so you can stop writing those heinous poems - your mom is totally going to find them one day, or maybe your kids, so just stop leaving humility-bombs in your personal records. Stop now.
And get this too - you're going to have a weird moment, like fifteen years from now, when you're dressed as Axl Rose, listening to what used to be your high school rage song, eating a deviled egg that came out of your hen on the farm you own twelve hours away from the place you grew up. You're talking pre-school politics with friends. Your husband is dressed as Slash and eating macaroni and cheese. Your two kids are with the babysitter.
The girl in the blue Honda rolls her eyes, is secretly interested and amazed, and goes back to writing dark poetry, and plasters the Darwin fish on the back of her car, and loses another decade to self-doubt.
Girl! I told you!
Also, the mom in me totally wants to feed Fiona a pie. But if she released that song tomorrow, I'd go crazy for it all over again.