As This Ain't The Summer of Love reminded me this morning, today marks the sad occasion of the thirteenth anniversary of Wendy O. Williams' suicide in Storrs, Connecticut. Those keen on memorializing such events are doubtlessly more concerned this week with remembering Kurt Cobain's similar exit a few years earlier. By the time poor Wendy made her decision, it seems much of the world had already forgotten about her.
I summed up pretty much everything I needed saying about my love for Wendy and the Plasmatics back on this post from 2007. Above is the slab of vinyl I alluded to in that post of deceptively prizing from a certain used record shop here in Manhattan for significantly less than they were knowingly asking for it. I still feel guilty about that -- and the shop's still there.
Pour one out for Wendy.
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