Nadege

I’ve been debating on whether to write this because it’s a mixed emotional bag and I don’t want it to get misconstrued. But Nadege deserves to be remembered and I can feel that she wants me to put this out there.

When I first saw Nadege, in the late 80’s, she was a drug addict bumming change on Avenue A. She looked like an exotic cat fallen on hard times, slightly ratty around the edges but compelling. Her eyes were remarkable, green and slanted, wide-set in a face with wide cheekbones and a quirky slash of a mouth. She wasn’t classically pretty, but she was beautiful. She was sullen, so of course I liked her. I gave her all the change in my purse.

I had a nightmare of a boyfriend throughout that time period who then became my husband for a short time in 1990. He was beautiful, also with green cat eyes wide-set in a face with wide cheekbones, also a drug addict, although on again off again due to my constant codependent hammering. He was the most faithless human being I have known then or since. He was also always broke and had no problem letting me cover all the bills while he smoked weed and cheated on me nonstop with whatever stripper or grade C groupie that was available on any given night. I was so in love with him that I couldn’t see straight.

Usually he turned his forays into new vaginal territory into sordid little affairs that always ended badly. We had a pattern: I would find out, freak out, attack him and the female either physically or verbally, break up with him in a huge screaming match, he would continue to fuck the new person and some extraneous others until he got bored and sad, then come crawling back. I would usually find a really nice boyfriend and then ruin it to take him back. It was all awful, and whenever I think about it I feel deeply grateful that I will never have to take that cosmic class again.

So one day I showed up at boyfriend’s band rehearsal to pick him up for the night, and Nadege was there. I didn’t know her name at that point and it seemed suspect, so I asked pointedly, “Why is that junkie here?” He told me that she was newly sober and hanging out with his sober singer. Hmm… She wouldn’t look at me and since we were the only two non-band members in the room, it felt rude and uncomfortable. I decided I did not like her so much after all.

You can guess where this is going. Shortly after that boyfriend started exhibiting all the signs of having started a new affair, which was essentially not coming home when he was supposed to and acting smug when I grilled him about it. After a couple of days of my haranguing he admitted it and I broke up with him…again.

I quickly sleuthed out who the latest one was–that fucking French doper. No wonder she was such a bitch at the rehearsal. I hit the ceiling. I want my change back!

I would see her out at clubs and it made me crazy. I wanted to set her on fire. I was at the top of the NYC band hierarchy at that point and had a pretty extensive gang of rabid girlfriends who would back whatever I decreed, so I advised everyone that if they spoke to her they were dead to me. So they glared at her dutifully and one time at the Cat Club I spit a big wad of gum into her hair. She told me later on that someone pointed it out to her and she said, “Oh yeah, that’s Raff…”

Boyfriend quickly tired of this conquest and I missed him, so when he snuck into my building and left a giant, elaborately carved pumpkin in front of my apartment door on Halloween, I took him back.

A couple of months later found me in sweatpants carrying a bag of laundry heading to my apartment on First Street. I saw Nadege walking in my direction and became hot with rage. As we passed each other I spit in her face, a ridiculous gesture considering the giant bag in my arms that I could barely see over.

Nadege called after me in her thick accent, “Raffaele! I want to talk to you!”

I said, “Go fuck yourself, you fucking bitch. I will fucking kick your ass right here in the street!”

She was unfazed and shouted at the back of my head,

“Wait a meenute! Listen to me. What I deed was wrong. But I ‘ave paid for eet. I paid. Hee made me pay.”

I stopped and turned around. She continued,

“I ‘ave paid. You ‘ave paid. Eee never pays. Eee should pay!!”

All rage drained out of me. I set the laundry down on the sidewalk and eyeballed her up and down. I sighed and said, “Do you want to come up for some tea?”

She smiled and said “Yes.”

Much to boyfriend’s chagrin, we became immediate best friends. She began dating the sober singer of his band. When I left boyfriend/then husband for good, she helped me pack all of his shit into garbage bags and lug it down five flights from my place, into a cab, and then up three flights into his singer’s apartment before they got back from a trip to LA. We both dated guys in The Black Crowes for half a second and she comforted me when it became clear that Chris Robinson was just not that into me while Johnny Colt was way more into her.

Then our paths diverged. I had my band and my constant search for enlightenment. Nadege had meetings and her sober friends but she could never get comfortable. She hated stripping but it’s all she knew how to do to make money. She had countless, often brilliant, get rich quick schemes but she didn’t know how to follow through with any of them. She could have been a professional dancer but never had the training. I would stop by her apartment to hang out and she would lay in bed with the blinds drawn, chain-smoking and complaining in her thick accent. It felt claustrophobic.

We all knew she wasn’t going to be able to stay clean. She stopped going to meetings and started this weird polyamorous affair with an ex-boyfriend and an angelic looking Irish kid that Madonna put in her sex book. Nadege fell in love with the kid and obsessed about the two men all day long. Then she met Christopher Walken at a party and felt that a friend she was with had cockblocked her. It was as if she felt a window to new possibilities had been opened for a second and then slammed shut onto her fingers. She couldn’t get over it. She watched “King of New York” over and over again. She’d say, “Wait. Wait! Watch this part!” Rewinding and studying his face in close-ups. She figured out where he lived and sat across the street for hours. Once she had a pizza delivered to his place to see if he would answer the door.

I tried to talk to her. I tried to talk her out of things like that, to motivate her to fix her life, but she couldn’t. I thought we were alike but we weren’t. I grew up in a dysfunctional but loving Midwestern family and had been taught that when things sucked, you suck it up and get on with making it suck less. Nadege had been abandoned and abused and was never given the same tools or support. She was, inside, an eternally sweet, broken little girl.

I played a show opening for Motorhead at the Ritz wearing an outfit that was a direct copy of her style, which was always on point and ahead of anyone else. I had also had a couple of outfits custom made copied from things she had created. She was upset, and told me so. I didn’t understand her reaction; in my mind we were the same person, why would she care? Looking back, it’s easy to understand: I had everything and was still callously usurping the little bit of turf that she had to herself.

Shortly after that she dove headfirst into full junkie mode and we stopped hanging out. She would call me at weird hours of the night to check in, always with shocking stories of coke-paranoia barricaded apartments and holes in arms so big that the plastic part of the syringe went in. I listened patiently and clucked at the bad stuff and told her to stop it and that I loved her. The bodega underneath my apartment started selling coke, so when she went there to buy she would hit my buzzer and I would come down and give her a hug. It was like she was an occasional visitor from another, much darker planet.

She started hooking on 12th Street. She lost her front teeth and her skin looked scary bad when I would run into her on St. Marks Place. I managed Coney Island High and watched her from the window in front of my desk, going in and out, in and out of a building full of cheap rooming houses that she lived in directly across the street. She told me a john paid for her to live there. We existed mere feet from each other and couldn’t have been further apart.

Then one day she called me to tell me she was clean. It was a miracle. She’d gotten a deadly infection in her knee from a bit of dislodged needle, and once in the hospital friends had grabbed the opportunity to hustle her off to rehab in Florida. I was so happy for her. She was happy, she told me she didn’t think it was possible and she had been waiting to die that whole time.

She hated Florida. She got a job as some sort of security at an apartment complex and rode a golf cart around at night, which I thought was hilarious. She called me regularly to report in on how bored she was. And eventually, because she couldn’t support herself in the States, she decided to go back to France. She began painting, and she was great at it. She painted furniture and clothing and eventually gorgeous, colorful, spooky paintings that came straight out of the deepest recesses of her soul. I was so happy for her; finally her creative nature was manifesting itself.

But that excitement was short lived when I realized the dynamic had not changed. The phone calls were still a stream of consciousness revolving around all things Nadege. She never wondered or asked what I was up to; I just listened and gave advice which was ignored. Her mood was still depressed.

I was over it; the novelty of having a somber French junkie BFF had worn off years ago. She came to visit New York and was a huge pain in the ass the entire time. She had gained weight and refused to wear anything but five inch heels because she thought it made her look thinner. She was broke and couldn’t walk in the shoes but wanted to shop. So I paid for cabs to take her to the cheaper stores in our neighborhood. She couldn’t find anything that fit her and complained incessantly. She broke her heel so I paid for a cab to take her to the shoe store. Then while she was waiting for it to be fixed I took her out for food. She ordered pasta and mashed potatoes and dessert and complained about being fat. I sighed and paid the bill.

It was exhausting in a manner that went beyond physical or emotional. It snapped something in me. I couldn’t bear to continue the same circular conversations we’d been having since we met. I desperately wanted to be happy; she seemed determined to remain as unhappy as possible. She sent me messages through myspace that I mostly ignored, until I finally broke down and told her how bad that visit was for me and how rough it was to be her straight man for decades. She said that she “wasn’t going to take my inventory” (an NA/AA phrase) and didn’t want me to take hers. And that she loved me.

Agh. I felt bad. I loved her too. I never wanted to hurt her. I just didn’t have much more to give.

More time passed. She continued to call me faithfully every couple of months. I picked up one out of every three or four phone calls, when I had the time and patience to listen to her talk about herself. I hate chatting on the phone, it makes me anxious. She loved it. She sent me pictures of the intense paintings she did and insisted upon compliments. I told her I wrote, numerous times, she never looked or asked me about it. She said she wanted to write a book about herself. I rolled my eyes. It was infuriating, although truthfully it would make a great story.

One day she told me, very matter of factly through facebook, that she had lung cancer. My first thought was “Of course she does.” She’d been smoking and wanting to die since I met her. It pissed me off. Her life had been such a colossal waste of beauty, grace, intelligence and creativity. Just a giant wallow in never-ending French junkie existential bullshit. And now she was going to die. Great. Just great. She would finally have a real excuse to lay in bed all day long. My second thought was, “Shit. This is really happening.”

We continued the same way we had. She called me regularly; I ignored most of the calls. Finally I called her back and she told me she was now bedridden for the most part, that she had found her connection to God, and that it comforted her. She had people taking care of her. She didn’t sound happy exactly, but she sounded positive. It was nice to hear her funny little voice. We covered as much as we could in that call. I told her that I loved her and I wanted her to feel okay, and that this hard life was almost done for her. I knew it was the last time I would speak to her, although she would call again.

Our mutual friend Robert Butcher was the one to tell me that she was in the hospital and had only hours to live. He gave me the number to call, which I didn’t use. I thought about it. I looked at it for a while. But I felt that I’d said everything and I was still so mad at her. It felt as if another call would be continuing to entertain the nonsense. I didn’t want to concede. I know this doesn’t make sense; I’m sure some people are going to think it heartless, but it wasn’t that. I love her. I loved her. And underneath the defensive irritation, I was relieved for her more than anything, happy that she was so close to freedom. I wanted to meditate on it while she lay mostly unconscious, and send her the loving energy that I could. Which I did.

When we are very young, we have no idea that time will pass so quickly. We think opportunities and beauty will flutter around us forever like butterflies in an eternal summer. I will keep Nadege in my heart and mind’s eye in that youth and beauty and promise. I know that she is near me and she is free. I’m grateful for the lessons, for the unconditional love she had for me, and for her patience with my impatience. There will never be another like her.

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PHOTO BY ROBERT BUTCHER
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Gypsy Shag

I don’t write about politics because I’m not qualified. Politics have always bored me and I am only now paying attention because it’s necessary.

Our country is so polarized right now that most people have drawn a line in the sand and will not tolerate crossover from the other side. I’m there. I want to live my liberal life talking liberal things with my liberal friends and in my mind all things Trump and red/orange are the racist, misogynist, greedy, nature-razing devil we repel as best we can via protests, voting, petitions, and facebook posts. Doesn’t seem like much of an arsenal, unfortunately.

I usually delete anyone uber-right leaning out of my social media friend lists. It’s not the most open-minded thing to do, but it’s less extreme than many of my friends. I have a few Republican friends and I am able to hear them out and we joke back and forth. But we are careful to be gentle with one another because we’re shaking hands over a minefield. They let me post what I want without comment, I do the same for them. It’s a small group, because most of us are too strident with rage and frustration at this point to entertain that kind of courteous finesse.

So I have this childhood friend…

I grew up in a traditional upper middle class Midwestern home. Mom, dad, me, four siblings younger than me (Catholic). My parents worked their way through college and my dad ended up making a decent amount of money while my mother stayed home and did mostly traditional mom stuff. We lived comfortably and without want, at least until he died unexpectedly during my first year of college in NYC.

My best friend in early childhood (grade school) was the second to the youngest of five sisters, parents divorced. It was a classic 70’s divorce–their father lived a happy bachelor life with his new girlfriend in a house on a lake. They had a pontoon boat and booze in the fridge. They were fun and loose and we loved going to their place in the summer. Their mother had full custody of the girls, worked a full time job and wasn’t nearly as fun. She was overweight and angry. She was weary. She was a caring woman and did her best, but even at 9 or 10 years old I could see that she was pissed off. And why wouldn’t she be?

The three older sisters were the most beautiful creatures I’d ever seen–cheerleaders with athletic, lithe frames and long, wavy blonde hair. They would lay out in bikinis for hours in their backyard in the summer; their tan, concave stomachs glinting with baby oil in the sun, the radio playing top 40, which was great back then. They were funny and sharp and had no problem getting boyfriends as they marched fearlessly through the world, always in the right clothes. In my mind they were the real life incarnation of Charlie’s Angels and I worshiped them as goddesses.

Things were great with my friend, who was the second to youngest. We talked about how much we hated both of our younger sisters and taped songs off of the radio holding the mike to the speaker and drew pictures of horses and fantasized about owning horses and had sleepovers that involved many snacks and marking the softcore sex passages in romance novels. There was an ease and ability to be ourselves that you only find with a handful of people throughout your life.

Until we put away childish things. Around the 5th or 6th grade everyone began noticing that my friend was blossoming to be even more gorgeous than her stunning sisters. I on the other hand, was not faring as well. I lumbered awkwardly under the weight of coke-bottle glasses, crippling shyness, and a terrible haircut that resulted from a miscommunication with my mom. I was too uncoordinated and introverted for cheerleading. The neighborhood boys were not amused or interested.

School2

I avoided my friend and socializing in general, retreating into a heavy shell of dark classic literature, where I could stay in my room reading and fantasizing about being the plain, yet noble and brilliant heroine. It was easy enough to separate because we went to different schools, me private Catholic, her public, although we rode the same bus. I began sitting with the chubby, acne-prone red-headed girl who sat closer to the front of the bus, while my friend sat in the back with the cool kids. She would have included me; it was my choice to move. The chasm between myself and those kids was too wide for me. But it made me even sadder. I liked the chubby girl, but I didn’t love her like my friend. And I felt angry that the world so capriciously divided people into worthy or unworthy categories.

Shortly after that period my family moved to a new town, so the issue became moot. I think we might have written letters back and forth for a while, and much later, I think the year after our senior year of high school, I traveled back to visit her. I was doing better then; I wore contact lens and listened to punk rock and had a cool boyfriend who adored me, all which gave me confidence enough for the trip.

But shortly after arrival I dropped back into the old insecurities. She was even more gorgeous and athletic and everything she wore looked amazing on her. I was beautiful too; everyone looks great when they’re 18, but I didn’t know it or feel it.

Always the writer, I penned copious pages of notes to my boyfriend describing everything around me. I don’t remember what I said but it was shitty enough that she stopped speaking to me when I unwittingly forgot them behind for her to read. I wasn’t mature enough to understand what I was feeling and I must have said some very mean things.

Decades passed before we reconnected. I am fuzzy on the details. She says that she reached out first when my father died. I do know at some point she sent back some sunglasses I’d also left behind with a letter outlining her reasons for not responding. I felt ill when I read it–so guilty and sad. It nagged at me for years, until I finally sent a letter to her mother’s house apologizing. My friend responded right away. We exchanged photos and became friends on facebook. She was divorced with children, a runner, a businesswoman, still beautiful. I was me–pets, tattoos, rock and roll, organized chaos. Very different, but it was such a relief to feel that we had healed and connected.

Or so I thought. Because politics.

There we are–me and my liberal kinsfolk, my mom, my friends, my siblings, all posting away feverishly about baby goats, global warming, corporate greed, #45, and Kavanaugh. All 100% in agreement that he should not be on the Supreme Court.

My friend started quietly with small disagreeing sentences on my mother’s posts. Dr. Ford was coached to frame this innocent man. She’s lying. She’s evil.

I though, is it possible? Can it be? Is my friend one of them??

deatheaters

Then I posted a statement about rich old white men and the shit really hit the fan. You could feel the angry keystrokes as she hammered me in comments about unfairly labeling wealthy old white guys. She was PISSED.

My reaction was, “Huh??” It seemed an unnecessary cause to get behind. But I kept it polite because I don’t want to fight with friends, especially ones that I already screwed up on. Plus my current crew is rabid and brilliant, much better informed than I, and I knew would handle it toute suite. Which they did:

And which of course made things all the more intense. But my friend stayed focused on me and called me out on what she viewed as a privileged upbringing and our problems of the past. The energy was weirdly emotional and confusing.

My guru mom opined privately that maybe something beyond politics, something deeper and more personal, could be coming up from within her to be examined and healed. Beyond superficial details, I don’t really know what my friend’s inner life has been since we were children. Maybe some crazy shit happened that now fosters a protective urge toward wealthy conservative dudes. Or maybe my life with my (outwardly) intact family unit looked better from the outside than hers felt?

And sadly, maybe it’s simply that some relationships aren’t meant to last forever and you can’t fix everything. Maybe in some cases it’s like trying to glue a broken vase together. You can make it look decent but it’s always on the verge of coming apart, with glue lines and chips missing.

I feel bad about that. I’m sorry that I hurt her. I’m always sorry for any hurt I cause. Except maybe my ex because I apologized so many times that it became a mantra that almost killed me, while he never owned up to anything. He can eat a bag of unwashed dicks and then apologize as many times while picking pubes out of his teeth.

After that initial sadness, I realized I am no longer so deeply invested in making sure that she has forgiven me or sees me as a good person. There’s this new, quiet release of not having to internalize all these outside opinions and I don’t feel the fear of being “less than” anymore. I’m doing the best I can at whatever level I’m at, at the time. Most of the time most of us are doing the best we can. She genuinely believes in her politics, I believe she’s wrong, nothing more to discuss. Life moves forward and people come in and go out of our lives according to the randomness of the Universe.

The upside to getting the shit beat out of me–by my ex’s lack of empathy, loyalty or accountability, my other ex’s girlfriend going for the jugular because I posted a couple of 20 year old photos, Spiker and Sponge’s pathetic but pervasive laptop-based smear campaign, and finally my childhood best friend freaking out on me for labeling rich old white guys as rich old white guys–is that I finally, blissfully, magically, miraculously DON’T GIVE TOO MUCH OF A FUCK ABOUT WHAT OUTSIDE PEOPLE ARE THINKING OF ME.

This is an entirely new feeling, and it’s AWESOME.

giphy

So the lessons for now are:

–People can be obnoxious for no easily apparent reasons that probably have nothing to do with you.

–Sometimes shit is too broken to fix but it’s okay because other new shit comes in to take its place. Sometimes you were supposed to break it in order to make space. So forgive yourself once you’ve done what you can to make it right.

–Republicans are crazy! Okay, maybe this one isn’t fully true but it makes me chuckle to type it.

–Not everyone is going to like you or forgive you and the more you can let go of the insecurity that drives the desire to achieve this, the happier you will be.

That’s probably it for today. Nothing too mind-blowing.Although I will say that knowing these things in your head is much different than carrying them around happily in your gut. So much easier said than done.

Thank you life for all of your crappy, unhappy, excruciating lessons that inch me toward enlightenment at an unbelievably glacial pace. And thank you friends, as always, for your kind indulgence.

And you’re welcome for that humiliating photo.

 

 

 

 

 

My August of Discontent

Followed by a pretty good September…

Woman #1:  That was the worst! And then you gave all of our drugs to that LADYMAN!

Woman #2:  I know! I’m sorry! I don’t know what came over me. I would have bought him a car if he asked. 

Woman #1:  It’s okay; it’s not your fault. You were DICKMATIZED. It’s a terrible thing that happens to all of us. 

Woman #3:  She got caught in DICKSAND!

This conversation is leading nowhere. I just think it’s funny.

So I know many of you are waiting to hear my take on LAPTOPGATE 2018, in which I was wrongfully accused of stealing a laptop from a DJ booth in which a friend was DJing, in a club owned by friends.

Unfortunately I can’t get too far into it for a number of reasons. First being that the club owners asked me not to, as they don’t want their business publicly dragged into nonsense. Second, I don’t want to perpetuate or dignify peewee-league drama. So I’ll keep it as brief and as non-snarky as possible. Which will probably still be snarky because it’s me and I am furious.

So yes, the day after visiting another bar after getting off my happy hour shift at Bowery Electric, I was accused of sneaking a fledgling DJ’s computer out of this bar via my purse. This is because the world’s two most dubiously capable detectives (seemingly parentally over-indulged and hysterical millennial laptop owner and her intellectually challenged BFF, who both shall, for convenience and amusement’s sake, be referred to as Spiker and Sponge for the duration of this blog) gained access to the club’s security video footage of that night and became fixated on an image of me putting my large-because-I-came-from-bartending purse in the DJ booth, where my friend was spinning, and then taking it out of the booth an hour later. Then, like all clever thieves, I spent ten minutes carrying said bag around the room hugging members of the staff goodbye before exiting for the night with my plunder.

I received a call the next night from the bar owner, who told me things were dire and asked me to call Spiker to try to reason with her so that she would not go to the police to try to get me arrested. I was stunned; it was so surreal. Of course I didn’t take anyone’s stuff. But I did as requested and called and attempted to explain calmly all the myriad reasons that I don’t need or want her computer. She responded, like all rational adults, by shrieking as if she’d been burned, until I was finally compelled to abandon the damage to my ear and hang up the phone. I then texted Sam and learned that Spiker’s reason for living had been found in his bag.

Sigh… all roads of chaos inevitably lead back to Sam. The computer had landed in his constantly open backpack, also residing in the DJ booth for a time on the night of said surveillance video. Spiker probably dropped it on the pile of bags while she was preoccupied texting her Adderall dealer or calling daddy to up her allowance. And because Sam is Sam he didn’t notice the extra weight until the next morning.

One would assume that this would have been the end of it. But Spiker insisted upon remaining in nonsensical victim-mode and accused Sam of covering for my kleptomania. He told her to go fuck herself. Then ensued a ridiculous and seemingly endless campaign of whining Instagram and Facebook prose about what a terrible person I am, followed by huzzahs back and forth between the two of them for being so “classy” while suffering so mightily under such tyranny. There were also countless complainey texts and direct messages via various social platforms from them to people I’ve known and worked with for 25 plus years. Who all assured these two geniuses that they had not cracked the DaVinci code, but instead were harassing an innocent person.

The night of the phone call I was so furious I put up a nameless rant on Facebook. I stated that I wished it could be 1989 for a day so I could mete out my frustration old school style. My friends responded in kind, which then prompted Spiker, (who must have been monitoring my page for possible song recommendations to borrow for her “DJ career”) to get hysterical all over again, flapping her birdlike limbs and squawking that she would now need an order of protection to prevent my army of ancient supervillains from attending one of her crap parties in order to beat her up or throw tampons at her while shouting “Plug it up”. Or maybe simply ask her politely what it feels like to be a complete and utter asshole.

So I then had to assure aforementioned bar owners that no one in my over-30 age peer group has the ambition or energy for fisticuffs at this late stage in our lives. And I took the rant down, as requested. After that some random troll or trolls spent quality time screenshotting and sending out any jokes that were made in the direction of laptop theft in what I can only assume were attempts to injure me further and/or inflame the situation. Then a few days later Sam brought a large group of people to another local bar after a nearby gig, not knowing that Sponge was bartending. She had a tantrum and refused to serve anyone until they left, claiming later that she was afraid, which was ludicrous. And to which Sam “Stay Jewish, Ponyboy” Hariss responded, “What am I gonna do, complain about the weather to her to death?”

Hmm…Admittedly this rundown is in no way brief, went way far into it and is quite snarky indeed. I’m sure I’ll get a call about it. But honestly I don’t give a fuck at this point. I’m tired of always working so hard to be the guy on the high road. August 2018 was the month in which I got hammered incessantly by young women for no good or logical reason, and I deserve to vent some sarcasm on my own damn blog.

The first attack (the blog prior to this entry, if you’re not up on all things Raff and are interested) I did my best to sort out how to be a good person and decipher what role I played in inspiring the aggression. And I did get an apology a few days later, which was gladly accepted. I have no desire to fight with people. But this laptop insanity was a whole new level of stupid. For this one I had to let go of the idea that there was some cosmic lesson at play and chalk it up to two things: one, some people are dicks, plain and simple, and two, chaos and confusion are the fees one occasionally has to pay to have Sam in the orbit.

While in eye of this latest storm I happened to get tattooed. My phone kept going off while I was sitting in the chair so my tattoo artist was forced to overhear all the conversations. He (Jonah Ellis) is awesome, and gave me his thoughts on why bad things happen while you’re innocently standing there minding your own business. His theory is that life is constantly stabbing you in the back of the head, then once in a while it stops long enough for you let your guard down and start thinking life is not so bad. Then as soon as you do, it starts stabbing again to remind you that life does indeed, and always will, suck.

This is hilarious but a bit bleak. I do have hope that there is more cosmic rhyme and reason to be had. Yet it did feel that way. I felt genuinely beat up. I was afraid to look at social media or leave the house for a week. I felt betrayed by my club owning friends for allowing a couple of petulant nobodies to have power to injure me in a scene that I had been participating in and contributing to since well before they were born.

Thankfully, it’s done. At least until they read this and start bleeding their teenage periods all over Instagram again. Plug it up! Plug it up!!

See how I brought that all around again. WRITING!

Onto bigger and better things–

Wendy Scripps, Liza Colby, Robby Bote (The Tip manager and bass player) and I went to London to get some biz done. Wendy loves the UK and all of us believe that breaking a band in the UK and Europe is more productive than doing it here in the States. So we’re looking toward more touring across the pond for all of the Wendigo bands, and we checked out the scene and took business meetings like grown-ups and had high tea for fun and Liza and I spent a day walking around the London Zoo eating ice cream and grinning like idiots. It was pretty great.

Here are some highlights. Check the Wendigo Instagram for more. And follow it for Chrissake. We have awesome content and we need more followers.

Right after landing, on 24+ hours of no sleep, I did a reading, along with one of my favorite poets and friend Puma Perl, for our friend Jane Ormerod‘s Great Weather for Media. It went great. Sometimes readings can be deadly dull or horribly uncomfortable as people read odes to their vaginas. But this one was full of interesting and talented writers and people liked what I read, thank you, Baby Jesus. And coincidentally, Puma read a poem called “It’s Not Depression, It’s August”, which contains the line, “Nothing good happens in August.” FULL CIRCLE! WRITING!

I was delirious but it was a blast hanging with NY friends in London.

 

 

Wendigo sponsored Jesse Malin’s sold out Gates of the West UK concert at Dingwalls. It was packed to the gills, the performances were great, and it raised money for two very worthy charities: Joe Strummer Foundation and Music for Memory.

Gates of the West

Liza and Robby got up and did a few covers at our friend Arno Von Detritus’ club Lounge 666/Nightclub Kolis. That’s the UK Sub’s Jamie Oliver on drums.

 

 

Liza and I met and saw the 5, 6, 7, 8’s in a tiny club and lost our minds. They were so goddamn cute and the music was great. Here’s the drummer:

 

 

Zoo!

 

 

Tea Party

 

 


So that’s the rundown. I hope all these details aren’t too boring but I want to keep you all in the loop and so much is happening it’s hard to know where to begin or end with updates. Wendigo has a lot of exciting stuff in store for end of 2018 into 2019 and I’m stoked to be at the helm. The Liza Colby Sound is going to Japan, The Sweet Things are working on a new album, The Tip is headed to Europe in the Spring, we’ve got a few other band projects in the works and we’ll be doing more projects in the UK.

My dream is to foster a business model in which the artist and the people behind the scenes work as a unit, making decisions together, so that the artist can flourish with the help they need and everyone makes money at the end of the day. We’re getting closer to that every day.

All credit to Wendy Scripps for keeping so much rock rolling and for offering to bail me out of jail next time I get caught with my hand in the computer jar.

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The Struggle to be Treelike When You’ve Always Been a Cat

There is that saying that it’s none of our business what other people think/say about us. I believe that’s a pretty healthy way to approach life and social interaction. There is too much biased and sometimes completely untrue garbage spoken about each one of us that only wounds us unnecessarily when heard. It’s always a limited interpretation from the outside, like that parable of the blind men and the elephant.

I try to be as open as I can in conversation and online because I value honesty and I prefer that information about me comes directly from me. I know it won’t always be received as I would like, but that’s the chance taken. I also feel that an openness about my “journey” (barf) is helpful to others who may be having similar experiences. I get a lot of emails from people thanking me for articulating their thoughts and emotions, and that’s the payoff for me. But writing about personal experience is tricky because it’s nearly impossible to exclude opinions and details about other people. None of us live in a vacuum. So while I try to be loving and protective on this public forum, I have my own dislikes and discord, like anyone else.

I am in the process of regrowing a protective skin after a long period of having everything painfully burned off, down to muscle, down to bone. I cry easily and don’t enjoy battles the way I once did. Conflict makes me anxious. I don’t necessarily mind being so raw; it’s certainly healthier than walking around with the gut full defensive rage I once carried. It’s made me kinder and more understanding of other people. But it also makes my somewhat public persona a liability at times. Lately I haven’t posted links to this blog on Facebook or Twitter because it feels safer to stay low-key.

On my last day of summer vacation at my mother’s home in Michigan, I woke up to have an exchange on Instagram that felt pretty devastating by the end. I was called embarrassing and desperate, and someone who knows me better than most and whose opinion I value highly was said to be included in that opinion.

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[Ed. Note –  Okay, I will admit she has a point with the relationship crack]

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Admittedly, I fueled the fire by not reacting as gently as I could have. And I know where she’s coming from because I could have easily sent something like this when I was in my 20’s. But it was early in the morning and it felt like an attack out of left field from someone who has never been great to me. So while I wasn’t fully rotten, I didn’t hop all over apologizing either.  Also, I should probably note that we’re talking about 3-5 photos posted over as many years, and nothing had been posted too recently. I was half asleep and completely unprepared to compose a kindly older lady response.

It’s taken me a couple of days to regain my equilibrium and consider the source, which I have definite opinions about, but in the interest of operating as close to loving as I can muster, I will keep them to myself here.

What is more of note to me, and the reason that I’m still thinking about it, is that I felt more hurt than the situation warranted, and all of a sudden vulnerable to the world. Does everyone see me as embarrassing and desperate? Does someone I trust with my innermost thoughts and have been friends with for decades think this of me? Is my self-identity a lie? I thought I was posting fun old photos that are a part of history and of interest to friends. But maybe I don’t know my own motives? I know for sure that I don’t want anyone’s boyfriend, especially one that I’ve already had. Still, I couldn’t stop myself from internalizing words that seem designed purely to injure, words that were self-serving lies, words that left me feeling nauseated upon ingestion. Literally–I felt like I had to throw up and couldn’t eat all day.

Happily, I have a beautiful, loving, group of friends that are kind, honest, wise and hilarious. I sent the exchange to a couple of my closest female friends, and they immediately understood my feelings without question. We talked about how we had each experienced hurt and frustration at the hands, or words, of this person. The screenshots triggered one friend into realizing that she too had felt abused but was so busy trying to keep the peace that she had never admitted it to herself. Then I sent it to Sam, somehow a constant voice of reason for me, and he said : “You’re being gaslighted”. And then he asked if I was okay and what he could do to help me feel better. This concern and rallying from all of them helped me feel safe and normal again.

Interestingly, at the same time that this all went down I have been in the process of reconnecting with a friend who I thought I would never speak to again. The falling out, partially due to the words and opinions of other people, was so big that we were lost to each other for years. Then we ran into one another by chance and all of the anger/mistakes of the past fell away. I just saw her smile and the warmth in hr eyes. All those bitter words floating away like dust. I can’t help thinking the timing is not coincidental.

So why am I posting this here now? I don’t want to perpetuate negativity. I don’t want to injure my friend, no matter how questionable his taste in women might be. I am not angry or sad anymore, and at the end of the day, after I calm down and stop reacting, I very much want to operate from my higher self. So now I’m simply curious about the mechanisms of who we think we are, who others see us as, and how we navigate a peaceful existence between the two without forcing ourselves to become numb or shutting down all social media.

On this journey of the last few years I have been forced to jump headfirst into the murky water of disdain by someone I thought would always love me. The Universe has shoved me repeatedly into finding a way to stand up and get through painful moments in the face of loss and harsh judgment, my own and others. I wouldn’t wish some of it on even this particular Instagrammer, but at the end of the day, I’m grateful. The more I am forced to face my fear and shame about myself, the less I have to hide from the world. I feel pretty open right now, and so blessed by the love that I do have around me every day. The rest, really, is just noise.

So I bless her for bringing me a lesson this week. And shout out to the insanely awesome Melody The Metal Yogi for showing me this quote.

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As always, Namaste, Bitches.

 

 

 

 

Everything

Wheee! 2018 has been pretty bananas so far. Here’s a quick recap of all the Wendigo Productions stuff that’s going on:

Wendy (Scripps, owner of Wendigo) and I went down to Nashville to see two of our bands–The Liza Colby Sound and The Tip play at the Hutton Hotel. We got some time with old friends Bebe Buell and Eerie Von and strong-armed Tip singer Benny Carl into BBQing for us.

The Liza Colby Sound went to Spain and played sold out shows and ate so much good food that Liza is still worried about it, unnecessarily of course.

Liza Spain

Sam’s band The Sweet Things are recording a new album at Flux Studios with Matt Chiaravelle producing.

Sweet Things studio

(Photo by Nat Koho)

The Threads are working on a new video and already have an album in the can that we will help them release soon.

Mick Stitch

Ten Ton Mojo are regrouping at the moment in order to rise like a badass, guitar driven phoenix. In the meantime their tees are showing up in some pretty fresh new places:

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Wendy’s birthday party on July 18 was beyond awesome, with sets from The Shrine (featuring our good friend Corey Parks slaying the bass), The Liza Colby Sound, The Sweet Things, and The Tip. I’m especially proud of this because I put the whole thing together, complete with shrieking at everyone about everything and then getting super wrecked after to assuage the guilt over all the shrieking.

(Stage shots are courtesy of Johan Vipper, people shots and video below courtesy of Anjanette McGrath)


We filmed everything and will have a video out in a month or two.

Wendigo is helping produce this benefit for the Joe Strummer Foundation happening in September, so Wendy, Liza and I are headed across the pond once more.

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And lastly, in December Liza Colby Sound is headed to Japan with Wendigo artist Reiko Lauper in tow to act as interpreter, fashion consultant, voice of reason, eye candy. I’ll have more on that later.

Right now I sit here happily in the woods of Michigan at my mother’s beautiful, fairyland home. Hours of time alone, the guest cottage to myself, with only the sound of wind in trees and squirrels scolding my dog. It feels like cool water running over my parched energetic field.

Usually there is a lot going on during these summer visits: my brother and his wife vacation at the same time and my sister lives down the road, so we cook and argue and eat and go to the beach and watch movies and drink too much wine on the porch or patio. For over a decade the-ex-who-is-a-total-dick-now-and-thus-shall-not-be-named came with me, and for the most part it was perfection. Storm is here with me sometimes, last year it was Sam too. He would have come this year but he is recording. So it worked out according to what was needed, just me and the dog. No loud music, no navigating through crowds on the street, just books and a bit of yoga and staring at green–a welcome refueling and reflection after months full of shows and travel.

My experiences and emotions of the last few years have been so raw, so deep. so buoyant, and at times so rife with sadness that I can’t help but assume that I still have much to learn. Why else would my soul insist upon thrusting me into so much at a time when most people are looking toward settling quietly into a life of comfort and peace?

I can see now that my spirit has always known exactly where it wanted to go. My brain and heart not so much. My intuition and some weird drive deep within have thrust me into difficult situations that test all sanity, and wonderful situations that other people only fantasize about experiencing. Highs impossibly high and lows well into the abyss. I am both incredibly lucky and simultaneously stuck in an accelerated math class that no one could possibly enjoy.

One of the NPC’s in one of my favorite video games occasionally shouts as he’s dying, after behaving quite badly, “I feel EVERYTHING!!!”

(last ten seconds)

Ayup.

Recently I found myself in the company of a physically gorgeous, carnally gifted, emotionally intelligent and decidedly cavalier young man. I didn’t seek the experience out, it sought me and I was taken by surprise. There is a homing device that some people have toward each other. There is a recognition of sorts; your drives and damages match one another’s in a way that you can operate comfortably, at least temporarily, within a personal parameter, like familiar dance steps.

Anyway, the experience, as pleasing as it was (which was very) held up a mirror for me to have to examine once again who I am and what I fear (aging, inferiority, being a fraud, blah, blah). In other words, it made me feel crazy. But it did set something in motion within me that while not exactly comfortable, feels necessary to come to the surface at this time.

My favorite dance is one of control, of taking care of. What do you need? I will provide. I am grounded, let me calm you. I love playing the great mother. So the people that seek me out desire my energy, my care. If they are attractive to me in some way–physically, emotionally, mentally, I will take over for them. And they will love and occasionally resent me for it.

I have always been unsure of my value, especially with men, if I am not the giving tree. But that can be draining and at some point I find myself depleted, fed up and rebellious, usually pulling it all back and leaving people feeling bereft and confused.

Half my people think I’m the sanest person they know, the other half thinks I’m completely bonkers. They’re both right. I have spent most of my adult life trying to prove sanity, always failing miserably in the end with too much emotion or a ramped-up-to drunken tirade. I’m finally willing to accept it–I’m fucking nuts. Not all the time, but often enough to be a source of exasperation to the men who love or have loved me and an even bigger source of frustration to myself. I want to be normal; but I never have been. Not when I was a little girl, not now.

But you probably aren’t either, are you?

So with that final, sighing acceptance comes this thought – maybe the nutty part isn’t what it appears on the surface. Maybe the “crazy” is actually my spirit’s sane reaction to the constant pressure that I put on myself to be admirable, to be loveable, to somehow be a holy badass, both chaste and solemn but also exciting and fun. In practical terms that means I should be more: a more thoughtful friend, a great partner to one person for the rest of my life, less dramatic, less emotional, more sexual, less sexual, more NORMAL.

It’s exhausting.

I am thoroughly enjoying this time alone and I wonder if I am one of those women that will live out her dotage without the usual one to one partnership. My mother is one of them. My closest female friends seem to be on that track as well. There are lovers and loves, but in the end we choose not to stay. We always blame ourselves, but what if there is no blame to be had? Maybe some people’s souls need to create a bit of chaos now and then. Maybe normal is different for every person and it’s okay for some of us to vibrate at a higher pitch. At the very least it gives the saner ones something to do.

When I landed in this peaceful place a week ago my mind was running, running, running. I couldn’t stop the obsessive thoughts. I can obsess over anything– people, the past, work, why I’m not exercising more, hair color, anything, everything, nothing. At first I tried to slap the thoughts down. For days I shouted in my head “Stop it!!” But to no avail.

Then it occurred to me–if this is happening and there’s no way to fight it, there must be information to be gleaned before gaining freedom. Maybe this default-mode chaos is trying to tell me something? I sat quietly and let the thoughts flood, working to observe impassively. letting lie the urge to pick up the phone for distraction. Until finally my higher, deeper self spoke over the chattering.

This what came to me; maybe it can help you too:

My rush of thoughts and obsessing is like any other addiction; it is noise designed to keep me from feeling everything. Everything which is often unpleasant: sadness, shame, regret, anger, confusion, fear. But knowing that still doesn’t immediately create silent space. What do we do with it, or how do we learn to live with this particular defense mechanism comfortably?

My inner voice said clearly and simply: “I love you.”

To which I responded, “Are you fucking kidding me? Really with this shit again?”

GROSS! So gross. It’s always the same stupid, Oprah book club answer. But I knew it was right. That’s it. There is no defense. Fighting only makes the demons more determined to be heard. There is only a slow, quiet shift one excruciating, mundane, non-immediately gratified moment at a time.

So I sucked it up and have started saying “I love you” at myself, or the spinning thoughts, or the brownies my mom made, maybe my dog, at whatever is handy, whenever I feel uncomfortable or overwhelmed by my bad, bad brain. Doesn’t really matter who or what is being addressed. It’s simply the act of allowing love to enter the energy field. And the chattering, while still there, has quieted. I am comfortable in my own skin right now; I can breathe fully in this moment.

For me, a loving acceptance seems to be the key to everything. It’s not enough to just say it’s okay any more. It has to be deeper and kinder than that–more forgiving, more heart-centered. We have to love the parts of ourselves that don’t gibe with that ideal and impossible version that we’re always hammering ourselves to attain. We love the weirdnesses of our lovers and friends; we must do the same for ourselves.

I wanted to stay in that relationship I thought was forever, but I couldn’t. My soul wouldn’t allow me to take the easy route and deny my own wild, weird, lonely nature. I would have missed all the amazing, sexy, gorgeous, terrible, devastating things I’ve been through since that implosion. I wouldn’t have Sam to lean on as partner-in-crime and confidant. I would have missed this beautiful time in the country with just me and my dog, and maybe only postponed the inevitable calculus class set to a Motorhead soundtrack that my life insists upon being, despite all efforts to tame it otherwise.

Namaste, bitches. ❤

Craziness

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Fluidity

Sam and I have decided to change the parameters of our relationship. Which I suppose is another way of saying we’ve broken up. But our situation has been so unusual from the get that to call it a standard breakup would be misleading.

If it were a bit more normal I probably wouldn’t put out this open blog entry. Breakups are always too complicated and painful and personal to sum up well in words. But people have been so fascinated by our connection–some creating distorted rumors and suppositions, some just understandably curious, that the story might as well come from the horse’s mouth. And it’s easier for me to put it down here than have to explain and re-explain to everyone in my social media orbit.

Despite this, 2018 has been pretty great so far and I am clearer than ever on who I am and where I’m going. This is a welcome change from the confusion, self-hatred, and sorrow I experienced during 2016 and 2017 that Sam helped me navigate through. I feel infinitely lighter and more optimistic in general.

He and I came together at a time when we needed each other but didn’t know it. It made no sense to me in the moment. Why would a 24 year old (at the time) be interested in spending quality hours with a woman as old as his mother?  And vice versa. Why would I damage the comfortable, partnered existence that I had and had loved to enter into something so clearly unwise? I had fully intended to spend the rest of my life with my ex. It’s still difficult to wrap my brain around it sometimes. Looking back I can see that I was in denial about some aspects of him and about some aspects of our life together.

Many people in the orbit assumed that hormonal changes had driven me out of my mind. And it is partially true–there was an element of uncontrollable madness that took over steering the ship. I was so confused about what was happening inside of me that I coped by partying and running from silence. In quiet moments my brain never stopped racing. In my retrospective mind’s eye the images from that time period are midnight blue tinged and spinning, like a drunken polar night that goes on for months into years.

That murky phase is done, not to be repeated. My wise mother says that once we learn something fully it becomes a tool we add to our personal toolbox, then it’s unnecessary to have to purchase it again. Now I understand that my soul insisted upon change that my brain and heart didn’t want or understand. There was a rhino-sized weight of baggage that needed release and I couldn’t do it in the relationship I was in. I had to burn myself down to bitter ash to make that happen. It was excruciating, devastating. But at the end of the tunnel I found some self-forgiveness and let go of crap I’ve carried since childhood, maybe from other lifetimes.

Throughout all of this soul-searching chaos, there has been this stalwart kid who is not in any way equipped to handle the midlife crisis of a woman who is high-pitched on a good day. He hung in nonetheless. He still hangs in, with patience and acceptance of who I am at any given moment. And he has taught me some things. That I can trust some people. That life doesn’t always behave in predictable ways but that I can trust my inner voice, no matter how far from the beaten path it sends me. That sometimes our spirit might be ahead of our thought process. That love doesn’t always follow the rules.

I have also learned quite a bit about societal perceptions about aging which is my mind are often erroneous and imprisoning–serving to delude us into thinking that sickness and decrepitude are inevitable, and that people automatically become undesirable and uninteresting after the first blush of youth fades. This mentality is outdated and I refuse to adhere to it.

Most of Sam’s male friends are unbothered by the age difference between him and me. I have noticed that his buddies see women as people more than men my age. Which is not to denigrate my peers, just to say that there is an ease between the sexes that we didn’t have growing up. Some of my male friends in my age group initially found Sam’s presence somehow personally threatening and took it out on him by treating us and/or him like a joke. I still have near-strangers on facebook adding snide comments under photos, as if by denigrating him they can somehow take the sting out of it for themselves.

Women in all age groups veer wildly on opinion. Some women I know, and some that I don’t, have sent me facebook messages with enthusiastic variations on “You go girl!” I’ve been extended fist bumps at parties. Then at other times Sam and I have experienced women’s anger toward me when they figure out what’s up. Young women sulk at my thievery. Women my age are much more straightforward. We overheard one growl, after groping him, mind you, “Why is he so interested in HER? She’s one of US.” Another time a woman standing next to us in a bar angrily and repeatedly demanded to know my age, with no pretense of civility. To which I finally responded, “Old enough to know that I don’t have to tell you my fucking age.”

But both my closest male and female friends have always remained supportive and understanding, despite whatever misgivings they may have or had. And in the end, after being forced to examine my insecurities about myself and the effects of time, I arrived at a place where I don’t care so much. I would love to look 25; I have every beauty gadget available for purchase. But for the most part I’m comfortable in my skin. I feel loved and lovable, and Sam helped and helps with that. He is a conscientious and caring soul and there are deep reasons that we came together.

But we have always known that our connection would have to be fluid. He has things to learn that he can’t do with a hybrid girlfriend/mom padding every fall. He needs to make his own stupid mistakes on his own. He needs to practice on some little girls before he commits to a lifetime with a woman. I love him and I want him to have everything in the world without being held back. And while I don’t know whether I’ll ever go back to a “normal” relationship with someone closer to my own age, I do occasionally enjoy the company of an adult who can pick up the tab and do their own laundry. I want to wake up early and meditate and go to the gym. He wants to stay up til 5 am every night and close the bars. It’s natural that we would be in different places in life.

So we’ve both come to the conclusion that while we wish to remain partners in crime as much as possible, we are not going to call one another girlfriend or boyfriend anymore. We are committed to remaining close and being gentle and communicative with one another if/when other people show up in our lives.

Which of course is easier said than done and this weekend, right about the time I was twisting my arm patting myself on the back for being the most mature human being to ever walk the planet, I had an emotional meltdown that involved much weeping and irrational panic. Separation and change, no matter how small or necessary, feel like death to me. I hate it. I want everything to stay the same and everyone to belong to me and me only. But Sam was there to talk me down and assure me that he wasn’t going anywhere.

So that is another gift of this connection, the very fact that it isn’t a linear march into retirement means that it can roll with the punches. When I was young I thought the only real love was romantic, and that romantic love was all about drama and insanity and passion and great Wuthering Heights highs and lows. That was draining and terrible and bad for my health. Then I thought I would find that one person to stay with for the rest of my life. Which I did. Then I crashed that car into a tree where it exploded and burned my eyebrows off. Now I value all the love in my life equally. My friends, my family, my animals–they’re all pieces of the puzzle that make me whole. There is so much love in the world to be had if our hearts are open to it. I’m not attached to form anymore.

Thank you friends, for reading, and for your constant support.

With Sam smaller

It’s Rock and Roll

Ah…aging gracefully.

So about six months ago I went out to see some friends play a show at Arlene’s Grocery. I like Arlene’s, I know a lot of the staff, the drinks aren’t too pricey, the sound is good, the rooms are comfortable.

But, like all venues, there’s a lot of banging into one another when you’re watching the bands. There’s usually at least one dumb little girl or guy at rock shows who believes they own the room and will do their best usurp your small bit of space in as obnoxious a fashion as possible. It’s the price we all pay to see a show. I enjoyed an extended and riotous career in my youth of bar brawls, dropping lit cigarettes into purses, throwing drinks, boyfriends dragging me away screaming, and one arrest for assault. So I am careful to move to another space if I feel agitated. I am too old and too wise to fight over a few inches of turf. It’s undignified and drinks are too expensive now to be tossed at the peasants.

On that particular night I kept getting shoved from the back. I did my best to avoid and alleviate. First I moved to the side. The offender moved too and continued banging into me. I moved up a few feet, same thing. Bang, shove, poke. I kept moving until I ran out of space to shift. I felt irritated and I looked behind me. The space invader was a very attractive Hispanic girl–pretty face, long, full black hair, slim body, classy-enough minidress, brand new thigh high boots, makeup on point, bitchy expression. She was wrapped in an average-looking musician-type guy, and it was clear that she was on her version of a rock and roll date. I could guess at glance that he was playing in one of the bands and she was very proud of being a band girlfriend.

Guuurl. Enjoy. I felt that way too my first thousand times. Make sure you steal a beer from backstage.

I said, “Hey, would you mind not banging into me?”

She looked me up and down with all the haughtiness of her imagined stature as the reigning Pamela Anderson in a room containing maybe fifty people max, and said:

“It’s a rock show. It’s rock and roll.”

To which I replied, “Yes, I do understand where we are. But I would be grateful if you could stop banging into me all the same.”

She said, again, as if I still didn’t get the concept. “It’s a rock show. This is what happens at rock shows.”

One of my best friends, Lorne Behrman of The Sweet Things, was standing next to me. He knows me well, knows that I have a hot button temper, hates conflict, and I could see the fear in his eyes. I could also see the panic on her date’s face, which read, “I have never been this lucky in my life and I may not get this lucky again. Please, for the love of all that is holy, don’t ruin this for me.”

I found it irksome that some dumdum felt she could school me on what I had been steadily living for longer than she’d been alive. But I felt for both guys and I did the right thing and took Lorne by the arm and moved to another part of the room. Later on we told Sam about my irritation and Lorne said,

“She was really hot.”

I said, “She was an asshole.”

Lorne repeated, “She was REALLY hot.”

I rolled my eyes.

Sam said, “Can you please shut up, Lorne? You’re going to get ME in trouble if you keep saying that.”

That was the end of it. Yay! Look, Mom! I’m a lady!

Fast forward to this last Saturday–

My friend Cid Scantlebury was scheduled to sing a set of Aerosmith songs at F-Bomb at Arlene’s. It is not an easy vocal and she very much wanted her people to be there. The musicians of F-Bomb are always stellar and everyone had been rehearsing steadily for weeks.

I hate going out on Saturday nights. The bars are too packed with the worst people and it’s the end of my work week so I’m tired of humans and movement. Fridays are hard on my system with bartending and the usual drinks that follow. If I force myself to interact on Saturday I’m cranky. So I don’t look at facebook, I wear pajamas to take the dog out, I carbo load and play video games until my fingers hurt. Heaven. But I made a promise and I very much wanted to support her.

Happily, I had reserved a strong pill that some kind soul gave me for just such an occasion. I took it prior to walking out the door and once it hit I felt nothing but beatific toward the roiling masses I floated past on the East Village streets. Ah, the little people. They look like ants down there, don’t they?

Inside Arlene’s I greeted Trishka, a friend and their doorperson who has worked in the club industry as long as I have, and stepped into a room full of friends and familiar faces. I got a glass of whiskey, which is a rare choice for me (the pill insisted upon brown liquor), and I parked myself toward the back in a space I felt wouldn’t get too overrun.

I was with a friend, we all have that friend, who often gets aggro when she’s drinking. She’s sweet and funny and then boom, it’s down the toilet. But I always forget it will end that way until it ends that way, so it makes for good stories. She and I watched the show while people cut in and out between us, shoving to get closer to the stage. It was mildly annoying but nothing out of the ordinary, and I was too high to care much. My friend, however, was getting increasingly irritated. I should have pulled her closer to the wall, out of the fracas. But again: #toohightocare.

Finally one especially obnoxious and tall guy slammed us both out of the way to jump in front of her. She couldn’t see anything with him blocking her sightline and she was livid at the energy of the shove. She pushed him in the back. I thought, “Here we go!” He didn’t react so she shoved him again, hard.

He turned around and said, “What’s your fucking problem??”

She said, “YOU are! You fucking spilled my drink all over me, you’re rude, you’re in the way, and you need to move!”

He said, with a sneer, “It’s a rock show! That’s how it works. It’s rock and roll!”

Ah, geez. This again??

I said, “Hey, we get that it’s a rock show, but that was pretty rude.”

I should add here that he looked to be about 45 years old, with glasses and nerd jeans. But he said, “You OLD CUNTS don’t know how to rock. You shouldn’t be here.”

Old cunts? OLD cunts? OLD???

Shocked How Dare You GIF by Nightcap

Sigh…I guess it’s on now. Hold my earrings, please.

My friend threw her drink in his face. Still feeling mellow, somewhat amused at the turn of events, and willing to roll with it, I opened the back of his collar, ever-so-delicately with one finger, and dumped my bourbon down his back with the other hand.

He went completely apoplectic: sputtering, enraged, eyes rolling around in his head. “You fucking BITCHES!! You CUNTS! Okay, now you are getting kicked out of here!”

I thought, yay! I can go home and put my jammies back on! I’ll snuggle with the pets and watch Mystery Science Theater before this buzz wears off.

We stayed in our spot waiting to get thrown out of the club. A lone security guard soon arrived with Captain Rock and Roll pointing and shouting behind him. My friend, still upset, began shouting too. I told her to be quiet as I felt my newfound status as the mellowest human being to ever fight in a bar granted me the position of official spokesperson for crazy women. She stopped mid-sentence, God bless her.

I said, “Yes. He shoved us, my friend shoved him, he called us old cunts, we threw our drinks at him. Everything he’s saying is true. But he’s a dick, as you can probably tell, and we know almost everyone who works in here.”

The security said, “Unfortunately he knows someone who works here too.”

I said, “That’s fine. We can leave if you want us to.”

Then I turned to the angry King of Rock. He had a much younger girlfriend behind him, which is probably the reason that he was confused about his own age. My first thought was, “Aw, we have so much in common! My boyfriend lets me delude myself too!”

But instead I said, “Look, I understand that you’re upset and I’m sorry we threw our drinks on you. But calling us old cunts was not cool either.”

He shouted, in what had now peaked into a high pitched whine: “I’M NOT TALKING TO YOU! YOU THREW DRINKS ON ME!”

I giggled. We did. Front and back. You’re probably sticky as fuck with that whiskey, you big baby.

The security told him to walk away and said, “Look, we all know this is dumb and it doesn’t seem necessary to kick you out. Can I ask you to stay away from him?”

My friend and I nodded and said, “Absolutely. You have our word.”

We turned around as Cid launched into a Stephen Tyler yowl. Our less-than-worthy adversary stood across the room at the bar, shouting and waving his hands at the bartender about his wet shirt and how he’d been wronged by two ancient derogatory words for vaginas.

I thought to myself with a smile,

Aw. Don’t be sad. It’s a ROCK SHOW. It’s ROCK AND ROLL. 

Sometimes, if you wait by that river long enough, the bodies of your enemies really do float by…

Joan Jett And The Runaways - File Photos