I’ve had numerous conversations with a 24 year old girl who works in my office about how relentlessly awful the females of her generation are to each other. Now, I don’t think that my generation in our twenties was perfect in any way, but at least in the EV we had an old school code of behavior towards our sisters and frenemies when it came to men. We still screwed each other over but we had the decency to feel badly about it and would occasionally beat the crap out of each other for it. This was a system that maintained some semblance of order.
I’ve always been fortunate to attract loyal friends who refuse to let the opposite sex get in the way of our friendship. If my bandmate or my sister found someone attractive the thought of being with that person would be inconceivable to me. Back in “the day” it was automatic, we just had our code of behavior and that was that. If you couldn’t live by that basic ethic you’d get kicked out of the “gang” and then we’d do really juvenile things like hiss and throw gum in your hair when you walked by us in the Cat Club. Dumb yes, but it was a structure that worked for us.
Lately it seems many of the younger females I encounter have no code of ethics. It’s not that they’re flouting any rules, it’s that there are no rules. It’s a frigging jungle out there, and at first I thought I was just being cranky and reactive (who, me?), but the afore-mentioned co-worker corroborated my findings.
A few months back Drew had a gig with Bloody Social and afterwards a large group of us sat around a coffee table at Lit (nexus of the Universe) having drinks and celebrating. The place was jammed, but we had the back room and at the table were seated five or six guys, then me, the obligatory girlfriend (poor Drew), and two or three really young models. Out of the blue the most irritating and probably youngest of the models jams her hand into her pants and starts masturbating.
So me being me, I immediately react and shout, “Oh no! I cannot watch this. Cut that out right now. Stop it. STOP IT.”
I mean really. Can’t a jaded, middle-aged woman get her drink on in a shitty ass basement without some anorexic teenager putting on a goddamn amateur show?
So she yanks her hand out of her pants and says, “Uh…I was just looking for something.” Yes, that would be your clitoris, brainiac.
And half of the guys (not Drew, who knows better and is just laughing and rolling his eyes) moaned a collective “Awwww!” in amused disappointment. I said, “I’m sorry guys!” and that was the end of it. Except you know, now we call her The Masturbator and I tell that story constantly, especially if she’s in the room just out of earshot. ’Cause I’m good like that.
But honestly, the maternal part of me just wants to grab her by the ear and send her home for a good night’s rest. Except home is probably a luxury loft full of others just like her all snorting coke off of the dicks of guys who will never call again.
But I don’t even know her. Where are her friends? I don’t think she has any. None of these girls are really friends to each other. They’re just like little sharks, swimming in the water, chewing and being chewed.
So there’s that kind of girl lurking about, and they’re absolutely fascinating to me. In our world they’re used to me now and we co-exist fairly peacefully. I watch them closely like a social scientist. If there’s a problem I just bare my teeth for a second and they scatter, they’re so weak from hunger they don’t put up much of a fight. But there’s another one who has gotten under my skin this week:
This other one is generally plainer or less interesting in some way and has to work harder to get noticed, so she gets a job in the music industry in order to hang out with guys in bands. She doesn’t masturbate with her hands, she jerks off bands with weblogs and bookings. But it’s equally as pathetic and obvious. And this energy combined with the current 21st century do-not-give-a-shit-about-my-sistren, dog-eat-dog code of ethics is absolutely heinous to behold.
I don’t begrudge a girl getting her groupie on. Lord knows I did not chase down New York rock and roll because I wanted to marry an accountant and reproduce. I have had my groupies and been a groupie. Either one is cool and I’m not afraid to say I’ve been a groupie. I’m just saying I prefer a little honesty with my whoring.
I never thought I’d miss some of those stank bitches in hot pants that lurked in the VIP room of the Limelight, offering my boyfriend a blow job as soon as I left for the bathroom. Now it all seems quaint, and at least I knew that that’s what they were there for. And when my friends threatened to kick the crap out of them they had the decency to move on for the night. And the women who did manage to get into the industry back then had to be twice as good as the guys and were still so abused that for the most part they remained very serious about who and what they fooled with.
Now the industry is shot to hell and everything’s run via myspace and it’s all DIY and confused and any hooker with a laptop can appoint herself management and lurk at every gig and festival cultivating “friendships” with the bands. And I guess I don’t generally begrudge them if they stay out of my life. But this week I got on the short stick end of some really selfish desperation and it’s made me a little pissy and I’m gonna bitch about it to you people.
I’m f-ing tired of snotty-ass losers in loafers pretending they don’t notice I’m standing there when they jump on my man to say hello. You see me, mouseburger. You think if you pretend I’m not there he’ll forget I am too. And I am sick of these random “business associates” that acquire email addresses and phone numbers for “business” purposes and then use them for anything but. I am annoyed by artfully arranged photos designed to fool the viewer into thinking that said chunky-heeled mouseburger is more intimate with my man than is actually the case.
Because that’s her entire reason for being there, for getting the job, for making the connections, for booking the shows, for taking the photos, for managing the studios and the artists: it’s all so she can get in tight and have a better chance at getting some of what the rest of us are having. And if she’s not getting it yet she’ll at least try to make it look like she is.
Guess what, corduroy: You’re never gonna be standing in my spot no matter how many laminates you get for SXSW. The only reason you’re even stinking up the vicinity is because his band needs the discount and you’re an easy lay for the entourage.
There are a lot of amazing, hard-working, sexy, honest women in the music industry who like the rock boys as much as the rest of us, but don’t fake a career or attempt to stand on the girlfriends’ heads to get in there. It’s still incredibly sexist and difficult out there, and I hail these women for their fortitude, call many of them friends, and wish there were more of them around to shove the pretenders out of the arena.
Sigh…I guess that’s the end of my rant. I just needed to vent. And maybe mouseburger will stumble upon this while stalking for info on my man. Because yes, bitch, I am on to you, and I am talking to you. Though I am ancient and working diligently on my maturity levels, there’s always the good possibility that I could have a moment, snap on your indie ass and “accidentally” grind my Louboutin heel into your laptop when you set it on the floor in an attempt to get a better grip on someone else’s boyfriend.
See, I’m old school like that.