Emotional Rescue

I’m back!

Okay, not totally. I still don’t feel especially inspired to blog about anything in particular, despite the fact that the world is full of intense topics to opine upon. But the brain is at least starting to turn back on so I guess we’ll start by randomly typing with the hope that something of interest shows up.

I have not been unhappy, things have been positive and chugging along as they should. Just not inspiring me to sit in front of the monitor in any other capacity than perusing recipes and hitting the like button on everyone’s facebook photos.

There are always the same boring reasons not to create that I’ve mentioned many times before. Signs lately point to the main reason being exposure/vulnerability. I’m clinging to that because the other alternative is simply that I’m lazy and that’s not very interesting. My dear friend Storm, who is the polar opposite of lazy and has already written a sold out one woman show and a memoir and tours constantly and writes great songs and will have one glass of wine and then stop like an adult rather than drink the whole bottle and then get sad about pets that died ten years ago or post really dumb status updates that have to be quietly deleted the next day, so she must be right about oh, EVERYTHING, is convinced that my continuing to remain behind the bar and not pursue a bigger life has to do with fear of blowing up.

Not in the Looney Tunes sense,

More like the sense that if I ever did get anything completed, it would sell at least to the point that I would be more prominent in the public eye, and that is a terrifying thought. Which is true. At least the fear part, dunno for sure about the sell part but it’s nice to think that this would be the case. I know that everyone thinks they want to be rich and famous, but if it were true then talented people wouldn’t ruin opportunities right and left the way they always do. I can count ten people off the top of my head that are more talented than a slew of publicly lauded stars, but who will never walk a red carpet or get noticed outside their own social sphere. Everyone has their reasons. In my case, I can barely handle it when someone disagrees with me on facebook about what I ate for dinner. For all this past badassery and a love of wardrobe judging, it turns out I’m a total wimp when it comes to being criticized and will avoid arguments with strangers at all costs. The idea of being truly hated all over the internet, and everyone who is public is hated by more than a few, scares the crap out of me.

The other resistance, especially lately, is that I, because of my age and past rock and roll career, am surrounded and friendly with a lot of people who live in the past. It bores the crap out of me and I don’t want to fall into that hole. I love my history and I’m proud of it. I’m happy to share old photos on occasion and talk about it when someone is sincerely interested. I’ve got some good stories and it’s fun to watch people’s eyes get round when they’re told. But there is an air of desperation in what’s left of the “scene” to prove that each one of us was important once in some grand way. So there are a lot of old ladies and men out there posting photos from 20-30 years ago and ignoring what is going on around them now, and I don’t want to get old like that. Yes, pop culture sucks, I’m not into it. But there has to be somewhere to turn for relief beside the scrapbook.

I see a lot of shows where people trot out the same Johnny Thunders songs for the 900th time and then everyone gets all maudlin talking about what a saint he was and how he would have done this or that if he was here now. I go to those shows and it’s fun to jump around to Chinese Rocks. I love Johnny as much as the next guy. But come on. He was no deity and wherever he’s at right now, he doesn’t give a shit about who you’re dating or how many photos you took with him when he was alive. Bass player, DJ, and miscreant Sam Hariss and I have a running joke in which we state things like, “Johnny would have never eaten his sandwich with that brand of potato chips.” or “You’re doing it wrong, Johnny didn’t tie his shoes like that.”

This is not to say I’m judging harshly, which would be hypocritical. It’s more about poking fun at the (small and large) deaths that aging brings, and a resistance to succumbing too quickly. I like those old photos too, I looked better in them. Especially my arms. I loved my little bird arms, now they’re all middle-aged lady big, no matter how many tricep dips are cranked out in a week. I like seeing myself standing next to Joey Ramone and it’s fun remembering that the world was once magical. I just don’t want to sound like someone’s grandmother any more than necessary.

So I’m trying to find ways to exist in the present, as a has-been rocker in a world full of young people who aren’t interested in rock and roll and insist on moving to New York just to re-work it to their Idaho standards rather than exploring anything the city might have had to offer before they got here two years ago to help mash it into a real estate pulp. It’s a trial and error experiment that every generation for centuries must have to go through.

There is a delicious drink on the cocktail menu at Dream Baby, where I work on Saturday nights, called the Emotional Rescue. Last week a large party of girls fell in love with it and reordered it all night. But they couldn’t remember the name:

Courtney My-Dad-Pays-All-My-Credit-Card-Bills: “Can I have another one of those Emotional Breakdowns?”

Me: “Sure, but it’s an Emotional Rescue. You know, like the Stones song.”

Courtney: “Huh? Okay, yes, one of those.”

15 minutes later…

Courtney: Can I have another Emotional Relief? Is that what it’s called?”

Me: “Of course you can. It’s the Emotional Rescue.”

Courtney’s friend Ashley I’m-Gonna-Leave-My-Jacket-on-a Couch-and-Then-Accuse-the-Bar-of-Stealing-It-When-It-Sat-There-Unattended-For-Two-Hours-While-I-Ground-All-Over-an-Investment-Banker-I-Just-Met-to-a-Miley-Song: “Me too! Me too! I want an Emotional Thingie!””

This went on all night, until I found myself shrieking sadly: “Emotional RESCUE! Like the Stones song! For the love of all that is holy, Emotional RESCUE!”

Courtney looked at me in all seriousness and said, “Emotional Breakdown! Two more please! What are the Stones?”

And then my eyes rolled into the back of my head and I blacked out for three minutes.

I don’t remember where I was going with this…Oh yes, living in the past, fear of change, fear of success, blah, blah, blah. I’ll figure it out. In the meantime, thank you for bearing with me, I’m honestly grateful that people want to read these missives and have been nudging me to get back to it, and I hope that this New Year finds all of you fulfilling your highest potential as well.

Much love.

Author: Raffaele

Rock and roll juggernaut, writer, muse, animal lover, Cycle Slut from Hell, friend, lover, sister, daughter, nerd, fagwoman, Slytherin, killer queen.

4 thoughts on “Emotional Rescue”

  1. What's in that drink? 🙂 Seriously, I seem to have no problem avoiding fame no matter what I do. Maybe I should have a drink invented for me – Creative Failure? The Nonentity Genius?


  2. yep, totally get that other folk are so bloody mature they can have 1 glass & not finish the bottle -wish it was me!!! And Johnny T ain't god, luv that u admit that 🙂
    just luv your blogs all round You still working in the bars? I gave up & went back to the corporate shit … needed the money, sad, hope to get out of it soon


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