Second, I’m drained.
I forgot that the last time I performed a full set with a band I did not have a full time day job. Plus it’s the busiest time of the year for the store which means the phones are ringing off the hook and I’m racing around shouting things like, “Oh my God, is it possible that we’re out of white satin corsets? It can’t be!!!” and “Can we overnight the last Madame Monastery costume to Idaho??”
And I don’t even work on the floor. Thank God because I’d kill someone for sure. Today a woman came in, pushed her way through the melee and stated in a French accent, “I want to be surrealism.” If I’d had a weapon in my hand she’d be dead right now. Luckily the kids who actually deal with the customers sort of shoved me gently and led her away before I stopped sputtering “Unspeakable! Unspeakable!” like Mia Farrow in Rosemary’s Baby.
So yeah, grown women are tearing the place apart to get their sexy costumes together. Every costume is X + Whore = Slutty X. As in Indian Maiden + Whore = Slutty Indian Maiden. This year everyone wants to be a pirate or Marie Antoinette. You know, if pirates and deposed French royalty wore teeny minis and fishnet stockings. Pretty much everything needs a push-up bra and ruffle panties and a garter belt. If you walk in there asking to be a Hassidic wife you’re going to walk out with a blonde wig, a g-string and a rhinestone handled riding crop.
So that’s entertaining, but the roiling humanity of it all is killing me.
Then there are rehearsals, which come after long days of fashion mayhem and cut into time allotted towards much needed beauty rest. Gini lives in MN so we’ve had to jam them all in at once. And there are our own costumes and guest stars to organize. And dealing with the club to make sure that my high fashion co-workers along with the Queen Mother Ms. Pat are taken care of in the style they are accustomed, and that we have the gear we need and that the lighting guy can make it and t-shirts made and blah, blah, blah… And don’t even get me started on the guest list, that alone could drive a sane person to madness. I have it on a google doc and I just rearrange and stare at it and it never becomes manageable. Thank God my mom’s not coming bc she’d have to be on the reduced list.
But it’s going to be a lot of sloppy fun and I just wanted to post an update before I plunge into the last few days of overtime bc I don’t know if I’ll get a moment again.
For everyone who’s asking – we’re on at 11:30. MF is notorious for its long lines so get there early. There’s an open vodka bar from 10-11 pm so that should be incentive. Plus I hear the opening band the Stalkers are great. I took a look at the club today and it’s cool and has a lot of rooms to wander in and out of and the staff actually seems cheerful and friendly. The party pushes for costumes, if you don’t want to do that just don’t go looking like a total slob and you should be able to get in with a minimum of hassle. After the bands it turns into more of a rock dance party and then they get tighter about the fashion.
Oh, and I just noticed my good friend RACHAEL wrote a blog some time ago about her experiences with CSFH that I thought was kind of cute: SUPERFREE. Her blogs are usually pretty funny but because she’s not on myspace I forget to read them sometimes.
All right, I think that’s it. Going to bed now so I can work an extra day this week in order to ensure that the good women (and some ahem…men) are cinched in and pulled up and teased properly for All Hallow’s Eve. Thank God the accountant cancelled out on the early meeting Pat wanted to have tomorrow. Because nothing says good times like beginning an extra day of work with a long drawn out discussion about taxes. Luckily she pushed it back to another early Saturday morning. Sigh…
See you on Wednesday. If not then, see you at the bar.
Donatella: Dahlink, what did you say your name was?
Iggy: Jim. But people call me Iggy Pop.
Donatella: Mr. Poop with no shirt on, what do you think of this show? It’s faboolous, don’t you think? Faboolous.
Iggy: Ah…that’s Pop.
Donatella: Yes, yes, silly man. Poop. How did you get so browney tan? You are more gloriously bronzed than my own gloriously glorious and beautiful goddess self and I do not like this one bit. How is this possible? I think I hate you now. Yes. I hate you and your rugged orange beauty, Mr. Ugly Poop. In my mind I am slapping you.
Iggy: Pop, Iggy POP, you whacked out bitch.
Donatella: Yes, yes, little brown man. You are repetitive and Donatella grows bored. You will give her a cigarette and go pouf! Away now.
Iggy: You are batshit crazy, woman.
Donatella: Fly, fly like the wind, Mr. Poop. Gaze at my exquisite blondeness no longer. Our special time together is now done.
I often get letters from people, mostly women living in smaller towns, telling me they envy my life and love reading my blogs because it brings them into a world they can only dream of and would love to have. I know exactly what they’re talking about because I grew up in a small town and while there spent every waking minute hating it and researching what was going on outside the immediate radius. It’s not easy and I used sheer force of will to propel myself out. But I know I’ve had the benefit of a good destiny as well.
I honestly believe that one of my contracts in this lifetime is to open up what I have been given for examination by people who feel they are looking in from the outside. This is lovely for me because it brings a deeper connection to the world, and dangerous because it’s the internet and any lunatic with an agenda out in cyberspace can read whatever I’m saying. So I have to walk a fine line: I can’t expose the people I love in some ways and I can’t expose myself in other ways. I am also finding that when you are really visible and open people start believe that they know you intimately, and that can be a slippery slope into all kinds of uncomfortable situations.
I do lead an exciting life. I am friendly with all kinds of exciting people and occasionlly get to do exciting things. I am fully psyched for Halloween, which will afford an opportunity to dress up, get a lot of attention (my favorite!), and hopefully entertain the hell out a nicely sized crowd. Performing onstage in front of people who like what you’re doing is the best thing in the world, and I don’t intend to do it too often anymore so I want to be fully in the moment when I do. Being in a band is a lot of work, meant for 20 year olds who are willing to work crappy bar jobs to support the dream. I’m far too lazy and cranky for that.
The first six months of this year were spent fighting some serious demons contained within my psyche. I cleared out a lot of old energy, but I still struggle to find my way through my own twisted brain at times. There are all kinds of dark issues with self-worth, trust and boundaries, like most of us. I have come to the conclusion that I will always be a little crazy, and I’m okay with that as long as I don’t do serious harm to myself or others.
I got into the big city when it was nearly impossible not to fall into something amazing and creative if you had the desire for it. It’s not that simple anymore, and I feel for kids just trying to spread their rock and roll wings and fly right now. The fields are certainly not as fertile, and that’s a tragedy of epic proportions. I am so grateful for what we had and continue to have because of that time.
I am also grateful that I am considered beautiful and that it has opened many doors for me. But it’s a whole other can of worms as well. How do you let some of that go and find other ways to feel whole during the march of time when outward appearance is what society values and rewards above all? So far I’m just pretending that it’s not happening and will most likely end up looking like one of those old showgirls with dyed black hair and false eyelashes at age 80, wearing a caftan and showing ancient photos to anyone who’ll stop by to visit me and the inevitable herd of cats and yappy little dogs. I imagine the lamps will have scarves draped over them and TCM will still be the primary channel featured on the television.
Anyway, I ramble (surprise!). So what’s the point? I guess I’m just trying to say that I am flattered that some of you are excited by my vida loca. But I want to make it clear that I also have the same bullshit going on that everyone else does: I have moments where I feel like I’m going nowhere. I get up every morning and go to work to support myself, as I have my entire adult life, and then I come home to my tiny apartment to feed the pets and vacuum, evil eye my boyfriend wondering what he’s been up to all day, and load on 3 moisturizers before going to bed. That’s the God’s honest truth.
I hope this doesn’t sound like an ego trip, because it’s the opposite. I just want to acknowledge what you write to me, and to continue to try to pay my good fortune forward. I can’t be intimate friends with everyone who seeks it on here, but I do try to share what I can, at least as much as is possible.
Drew: Well, you must be REALLY shy then…
Me: Not so shy I can’t smother you with a pillow when you’re sleeping.
Drew: My life is going to be hell until Halloween, isn’t it?
Me: You mean the day that I am restored to my rightful throne as Queen of the Universe?
Drew: No, I mean the day that you dress like a whore and pretend it’s 1989. Oh wait, that’s every day.
Me: Don’t worry, babe, you’re on the guest list. Can you rub my feet now?