My Stupid Sister & Those Awful Gaucho Yoga Pants

Guys, you can skip this one, it’s total girlie crap…

Actual phone conversation:
My stupid sister: Hello?
Me: What do you want?
MSS: Why didn’t you pick up a minute ago when I called?
Me: I was on the other line. What the hell do you want?
MSS: I weighed myself today and I weigh 111 pounds.
Me: Yeah, well you totally suck. I have decided that I might as well stop thinking about it all the time because no matter what I eat I weigh the same anyway.
MSS: Well, you’re not supposed to weigh yourself all the time, but I did weigh myself today and I weigh one hundred and eleven pounds.

Me: *sigh*…So what do you want, a medal?
MSS: I think you should write a blog about how I weigh ONE HUNDRED AND ELEVEN POUNDS. Because I’m way, way skinnier than you and I believe that it would be of interest to your readers.
Me: Yeah, whatever…

AND SECONDLY…

What is the deal with those horrible knit yoga gaucho style pant that every woman in NYC has suddenly started wearing? You know the ones—they are made of thin knit fabric, come in a variety of colors, have a roll-down waistband, and stop below the knee where they flap around as the wind takes them.


Did I miss that meeting? Was there a memo?? There is some collective unconscious in Manhattan that will all of a sudden decide that one particular item must be owned and worn by every Patty Pussy roaming the streets (this is my very gay friend Paolo’s term for the white, normal, super-straight girl that just got in from the Midwest and lives for Sex and the City style until she talks her ex-frat boy boyfriend into marrying her and breeding overindulged children). It freaks me out! A few summers ago it was the clamdigger, which wasn’t so bad but just bothered me because no one called to tell me I needed to own a pair. This season it’s these God-awful pants. They are so bad that I feel I must mention them out loud in case anyone out there is thinking, “Hmm…every girl I know has suddenly purchased a pair of these hideous and incredibly unflattering pants, perhaps, perchance…am I supposed to own a pair as well?…”
NO, dear lady! First of all, they look extremely inexpensive. I have nothing against cheap clothing and wear a lot of bargain crap myself, but you should never wear something that looks like it came straight out of China’s sweatshops straight through Joyce Leslie to you.
And more importantly, God nor man nor beast has ever created a more unflattering pant! How about a lazy style that says, “Ah…I could have put actual clothing on, but I think I’ll just put on this thin pant facsimile instead…” CHECK! Camel toe? CHECK!! A thin, tight knit stretched across the ass to accentuate any cottage cheese present? CHECK!!! A length that cuts you off midway through the calf, thus making you and your legs look shorter and stumpier? CHECK AND CHECK!!!!
Ladies, please. I am begging you: If your friends are wearing these pants, insist that they stop immediately. We’re all stressed out enough without having to witness this latest fashion travesty twenty times a day.
And now, I really must go prank call my stupid sister. She’s short and can’t hold her liquor, please feel free to message her about her shortcomings at http://www.myspace.com/lisalovey

My neighborhood may suck but my friends are cool as fuck…

Yesterday I had a particularly stressful work day, and afterwards went to meet Drew for a drink at Motor City to listen to his friend Poker Chris spin some rock and roll for us. Five glasses of wine later, we walked home through an ungodly sea of what I then later termed in a ranting bulletin entitled “I am the Omega Man” as: “hideous, horrible, docker-wearing, fat-assed, never heard of the Cramps, will sue you if you give them the wrong table, have never been told no, awful, horrible, hideous, soulless, energy-sucking Guffs, breeding cloney, rotten, spoiled, undisciplined children, soulless Bush-supporting people that I moved here to get away from and now am overwhelmed by. TEEMING, like rats or cockroaches, only less attractive and more abundant.”

And frankly, I believe I may have been being a little kind with this description.

I’m not going to post my bulletin here as it was written in a drunk and depressed state of mind and you’ve all heard me sing this song too many times already. But I do want to post the gorgeous responses I got. It has restored my faith quite a bit. We have a small island of intelligence left in NY and I am grateful that myspace keeps me connected to it. Thank you, thank you my generous friends…

From Rik Rocket:

Well there a couple of Omega People left….

I’ve been in the same apt on 1st ave & 6th for 12 years (whoa!)..

I know, Raff it’s fuckin’ soul deadening.. the hummers, the cigars, the FUCKING DOUBLE WIDE BABY STROLLERS, the cackling, evil, sex-&-the-city, banana republic stepford wastes of oxygen, breeder, pathetic excuses for women, the frat-boy, flip=flop-wearing, Nickelback-requesting ‘men’….

I hate the way they force murderous thoughts into my head when I’m just trying to go to the fuckin bodega….

I came to the city for the same reasons….Where are the kick-ass women (and you know what I mean by KICK-ASS women) Kick-ass bands, artists…KICK-ASS ANYTHING?????

I miss ave A, B, C… I miss St. MArks….I miss Wah wah, GreenDoor, 7B, pyramid, Shit! I even miss just 5 YEARS AGO: CIH, LIFE, SQUEEZEBOX….

I miss there actually being a real scene…bands that really rocked, not just rocked ‘good enough’ for whatever bullshit city they moved here from….

It’s sad and depressing….and to have to constantly hold back so you don’t sound like a griping old-fogey. Looking at these 22 year olds and thinking ‘you think you are *CRAZY!!* but you are so not crazy at all….’ And then feelin like a bitter old dick for thinking that way….

Shit I even miss the dimebag rastas on my corner…

i was Djing at Motor a few weeks ago when some 22 year old blonde yuppie larvae asks me, “Can you play some black music?”—dead serious.
I blinked.
I said, “You mean music performed by ‘Black People’?
She nods. Still smiling as if she were ordering a venti frappe-mocha-chino.
I say, “Do you mean ‘Temptations’ black music or ‘DMX’ black music.
“Yeah Like DMX!”. Still smiling wide eyed.
All this while I am currently spinning: stooges, zep, FUCKING BLUES BASED ROCK! IT’S ALL BLACK MUSIC YOU WASTE OF DNA!!!
I played a block of Chuck Berry, jimi, Screamin Jay & Little Richard (which I’m sure was lost on her.)

It’s these moments when you hope Darwin was right and one day she will ask the wrong person to play ‘black music’ and she will be mercifully removed from the gene pool.

Sorry to ramble….

Don’t mean to date, Raff, but one of the first shows I ever saw in the city was CSFH at the OLD Ritz…….the Joey ramone circus of the perverse…

You’re one of the reasons I’m here too.

You’ve always been an amazing, strong incredible woman and a great inspiration to me, whatever that may be worth to you, heh…
You’re also correct about everything.
You’re not alone.
I can’t really offer any advice, but all the support I got is yours.

~Rik


From Michael:

Wow . I love your honesty .It is so pure. What come to mind and this is all stream of consciense it’s 2 am , I just played a motorhead show , so bear with me . You are revolution .It’s inside you . Your core your soul your essence ,spirit , being it doesn’t matter where you are Timbuktu , toyko ,times square ad infinity . That’s the real part that’s the beauty ,that’s the spirit . that can never be extinguished . There can be a starbucks on every corner .But they can take away what is within. the invincibiltiy you feel when you listen to your favorite song .No one can take that from you . the drive the passion the love for yourself , your friends , rock and roll , fashion energy all the good shit . That’s what it is . it’s not where your from it’s where your at . The joy you bring people from your words and your truth . i know the city is gone . I grew up in the bronx !!! in the 1970’s !! blackouts , crime violence ! The son of sam !

You didnt go to Avenue A ! Whiteboys used to get jumped in Willamsburg . So many of my boys got stabbed on avenue b hit with bats , on and on.

When I was 14 I turned the corner out of the D train to go to Cbgb’s for a show (My first) and I was afraid !! I was afraid of the kids outside !! PCP and chains and punks living on the street ! I loved it .

I know it is gone . i live 5 blocks from Lamour east . No hipsters , no yuppies , no goat cheese . Just humble working folk . My super loves me . I helped him out when an apartment upstairs had a fire .

Maybe a vacation ?
maybe a moment of silence for our dead city ?
Pray for apocolypse ?

I have empathy for you . I feel your truth . I went to Willamsburg to go to a studio space . I want a shirt that says I was born here Motherfucker .!! NYC !! Who the fuck are you to call yourself a newyorker you hipster scum brown shoe member’s only jkt prick!!

I dated a girl who lived out there a while ago .. I used to jump out of the train , put Sabbath on my headphones and god help you if you were in my way when I stormed down the street . Those fucks didnt get out of my way fast enough !!

I dont have an answer Raff only thoughts .
I love to listen to you and I can identify with you
I pray you find and answer and some solace .

Btw the turbo ac’s are playing in Berlin in september on the 14th . That is so much like old NYC .
maybe a vacation , you will be on the guest list ….


From Jim:
I started coming to NYC in as a teen in the late 70’s. It was frightening but at the same time every unfamiliar step was filled with a feeling I don’t think I could ever adequately describe. Like me I am sure you felt it. Perhaps that is the best way to remember it. NYC felt like no place on Earth. I had to be here. One day.

I suffered through college at the urging of my parents spending most of my free time here in a drunken and drugged up stupor. I finally made it here 1982 or 1983 I can’t really remember. I do remember where I lived. 6th street between avenue C and Avenue D in a one room studio on the ground floor with three other friends. First building in the middle of the block. The rest of the block was burnt out and razed. It was totally cool.

Four years of college and my life was finally my own. So I became a bike messenger. That gave me tax free dollars to pay my share of the rent and and keep me in a fucked up stupor. I was in heaven.

I know it’s quite some time ago but I remember so much as if it where yesterday. I think most of all I miss hanging out on St. Marks. Freebeing every Tuesday looking at the chalk board in the window checking out the new LP arrivals. Flip on 8th street and all my friends that worked there. Hanging out in the park drinking Olde English and eating bags of barbecued Bon Tons by the bag and smoking Pot over a burning barrel.

I remember all the friends lost and wonder what happened to many of them. The end came too soon for some. Drugs, AIDS, Suicide. Some just disappeared. A few amazingly got thier shit together and fled the city and are now suburban Moms and Dads.

I sometimes wonder about the babies I held while so their parents could take a picture of them with the freak with the giant Mohawk. Those kids are in their 20’s now I suppose. I wonder if they grew up looking at those pictures.

I remember the shitty bands I was in that never went anywhere. But at the same time left me with treasured memories. Rock star? Fuck that. It was allabout getting drunk and getting laid. Rock ‘N’ Roll.

I could go on forever. I just turned 44 a couple of weeks back. Guess what? NYC has changed dramatically over the years. I for better or worse have not. I remember as you remember. But for me the past is the past. I can’t go back and relive it.I just hope everyday that the present gets better. I will live until I die. Until I die I will live here. No place on Earth I have ever been has ever come close to NYC.

I have hope. I will always be myself. NYC will always be in transition. On some level I suppose I am in transition too but they will never steal my soul or break my spirit. I want to be happy.

I wish you to be happy too.

Jim


From the lovely Tanya:
i know i needn’t say it
but you know i adore you…
i have the many of the same feeling you’ve
expressed here…
i wouldn’t dream of attempting to convince
anyone of remaining here…
especially someone who remembers how
wonderful nyc used to be…
the jessica simpsons & their poodles or
yorkies or whatever complaining about spanish
kids on their bikes on the sidewalks & the homeless
& their “having to look at them” on the les
turns my stomach in such a way that i just
wanna beat their heads in & feed them their dogs…
the standards for hip & cool has nothing to do
with heart, individuality or harmony….
(i could rant for a while but the pain from my recent
root canal demands i lay down so i’ll try to be brief)
yer discomfort is felt by many….
lost, here, at home…
everything changes & i don’t want to go with it….
yep, i wanna leave too…
& the country isn’t as unappealing as it used to be
which freaks me out cuz i’m a city girl…
but until you find yer way,
used these bastards as the example for being grateful
that you are who you are…
cuz no matter how
“beautiful” or “successful” or “happy” they “are”,
they’re soul sucking home wrecking parasites who
aren’t worth the spit i would toss at them…
“TEEMING, like rats or cockroaches,
only less attractive and more abundant. ”
couldn’t have been said more perfectly…

i love you raffaele…
& not in one of those
“we’re such good friends” ways…
but more of a real woman way…
you always impress me….
& make me happy to have known you
even the little bit that i have…
be strong in yer days & nights…

big kiss…
~tanya


From Douglas J:
new york aint what it used to be for sure, but nothing ever is… sometimes i walk around and miss some of my old stomping grounds or get sad about what has become of said stomping grounds and i try to think if it’s them that’s changed or if its me… sometimes its one or the other, sometimes its both.

but i always think about the drones walking around just there looking around for what used to be… and they won’t find it, not because its gone gone gone, but cause they never look deep enough. they never have and never will. but they aren’t the problem cause they were always there, on the outside looking in thinking they were on the inside looking out.

sometimes, my favorite thing to do in this city is to pass some street or building and turn to whoever i am with and say “this happened there, or i used to eat here after a night out across the street, etc. etc.” THAT new york is always there and no matter how many clubs they renovate or buildings they tear down or used clothing stores they turn into bloomingdales or prada, THAT new york is always underneath.

which is where it always was in the first place, no?


From Tim:

I read the bulletin you had posted last night about the East Village changing, and what it’s like for you now. I wanted to let you know that I feel your pain…

I’m living in midtown now (54th & 8th). Often I think I miss the EV, but then I think I’m missing something that isn’t there anymore. Then I go down there, a couple of times a week, and I hate it – especially at night when all of those people are out. The daytime isn’t so bad. It’s a bummer to be sure.

The same thing goes for the meat packing district…have you been over there lately. It’s horrendous! There are some good restaurants but the crowds are just hideous. A frined of mine & I have taken to calling it the douche bag district.

The conformity is just rampant…something I’ve been pretty conscious of since around junior high school when I was the lone punk rocker, and everyone else was in their Journey t-shirts. Ya know? I also think our age (around 40, give or take) has something to do with it.

Anyway…just wanted to let you know you’re not alone. I can relate big time.

Hope you’re well otherwise…

Tim Broun

E=MC2

I have been thinking a lot about energy this week. Mostly about why we go where our energy tells us not to, or how to be clearer on where we are actually supposed to go energetically.

I have rarely had problems with my female friendships. I love the women in my life and cherish their love and support and I have no patience for women who don’t like other women. That energy flow is usually very clear and easy for me. I generally know immediately which women I can trust and let into my inner circle and which ones should be held at bay with a sharp, poison-coated stick. But every once in a while some needy bitch slips through because I have an unfortunate tendency to be one of those mommy caretaker types.

So I have one friend who is a complete energy vampire. I disliked her when I first met her but she was relentless in her quest to be my friend and I stopped paying attention to my first reaction as she won me over with a cute sweetness and fun nature. But she is a selfish, bratty pain in the ass, and I have been trying to extricate myself from the friendship for years. Unfortunately, she is very persistent, she will call me 10 times until I respond, and I have felt a sort of responsibility to continue being her friend because she seems to want it so much and always does something endearing just when I’m about to tell her to go fuck herself.

We had an incident a short while ago that was fairly minor, but completely typical of our dynamic, in which I was pushed and drained to the verge of tears by the simple act of trying to help her get her a pair of shoes. It caused a light to go on for me. This person, who I have always seen as sweet, has been sucking me dry for years, and out of a dysfunctional sense of obligation I haven’t protected myself from it.

That same week I went out to dinner for Noelle’s birthday with her Army of Darkness, a group of gorgeous, tough, tattooed, smart women, and it was the exact opposite experience. It was a great night, everyone was funny and loving towards each other, and I left them feeling connected and joyful in a deep way, I actually felt spiritually filled by the time spent with these lovely women.

Then I had an incident with an acquaintance here on myspace. I don’t know him at all but he started writing me these long, long messages about random stuff, mostly music and once a demented one about how much trouble he’s having dating. I responded sometimes, usually briefly, and just wrote him off as another nutty fan. So then it turned out he was mining my friend list for attractive ladies well out of his league (of which there are many because my girlfriends are pretty fucking hot). He hit on one and when she didn’t respond the way he wanted he got really belligerent and stupid about it. Then he sent the exact same come-on letter to my sister, who is very obviously married with a baby, and this totally enraged me. Don’t fuck with my friends and don’t even think about fucking with my little sister or I will turn on the Scorpio venom so high that you will cry like a pms-ing teenage girl.

I festered (it’s a hobby) on that for a while and composed a whole letter in my head to him, explaining my feelings about how completely inappropriate his behavior was. I also wrote a long blog detailing the torture that my horrible friend has put me through over the years. Then I realized, after thinking about it for far too long, that the guy wouldn’t get it and both of these reactions are another symptom of my whole tendency towards handing energy out to people who don’t deserve it. Engaging in any way with people who leech on for their own bloodthirsty needs is a continuation of the energy drain. Writing about and thinking about the wrongs that this girl has done to me is still a way of handing her my energy, and why should I take the time to try to educate some asshole that I don’t even know when I don’t have time enough for the people I love?
So I haven’t posted the blog and I let it lie with the clueless myspace freak. He sent me a retarded couple of messages disparaging my friend and telling me I was wrong to delete him and I didn’t respond. This was extremely difficult as I have an insatiable need to foist my opinion on others, so I am quite proud that I was able to shut it for once in my life. I may still post the blog because it’s already written and she’s such a soul-sucking fiend that the story is entertaining. But I’ll hold off for today because this topic is far more important to me.
My light bulb moment (in Oprah-speak) is essentially this: since we are all made up of energy and everything around us is made up of energy (E=mC2), we need to pay attention to how we are using or directing it. This includes our thoughts and conversation. It is too valuable to squander on people, relationships or things that don’t serve our spirit. Squandering personal energy causes sickness, stress, depression, and horrorshow shoe shopping experiences. It may even be unholy to treat our energy with such disrespect, if that makes any sense, because it’s a violation of the essence of who we are. I have always known this intellectually, but I’m just starting to understand it in an everyday experience kind of way.
So that’s the information these two ticks (and so many others over the years) have delivered to me and I am passing on to you. I thank them for the lesson and hope that I can now be free of their needs.

Meeting My New Neighbor!

1:45 AM

So, any of you who have been with me for a while may remember that my upstairs neighbors were dumbass NYU party girls that tortured me nightly with their late night frat boy visitors. They were just a footnote in a long trail of nightmares, beginning with my afore-mentioned ex-husband and continuing through two complete renovations, including floor sanding at 7 am which caused huge chunks of my ceiling to collapse, and a bathroom overhaul which still causes stones to suddenly fall from nowhere into my bathtub.

Ah, the East Village. Once a bastion of cheap rattraps to exist in happily while pursuing an art career or a drug habit, now a half-reconstructed set of yuppie warrens, punctuated by a few holdouts like myself who still cling to our cheap rents while the renovating sky falls around us.

I knew from the sounds of early morning construction work this week that my NYU sweethearts must have moved out. Who would be the new candidate? Maybe someone cool for a change?

Nah…

So about 15 minutes ago I woke up to the far too familiar sound of water pouring into my kitchen and bolted out of my bed, tossing dozing cats willy-nilly (Side note: don’t you love the phrase “willy-nilly”?). Not dripping or even trickling, but completely pouring, like someone is taking a shower in my kitchen. I quickly assessed the situation, (yes, of course it’s coming from upstairs) and threw on a robe and ran into the hall barefoot and up the flight of stairs to what must certainly be my wonderful new neighbor.

I should add that at this point I have on very greasy face cream and a few patches of zit cream here and there. And the robe is ratty and pink, plus I am furious so I’m pretty sure the mood generated the wild eyes of a lunatic. I was essentially a tattooed version of Gloria Swanson in Sunset Boulevard, sans the chin strap and fancy living quarters. But I knocked as politely as possible and waited for a response. Which of course I didn’t get, but I could hear someone trying to tiptoe around near the door. So I gave in to my soul’s cry for justice and pounded loudly and with all the fury of a woman who has spent 15 years living directly below noisy mama’s boys and irresponsible jackasses.

The door opened a crack and revealed the face of a very nervous-looking young blonde. NYU anyone? Here is our conversation:

Me: “There is water pouring into my apartment right now.”
Her: “Well, I’m not doing anything, I don’t know what it is.”
Me:  “Well there’s water coming from somewhere in your apartment. It’s raining into my kitchen. We’re talking major flooding.”
Her: “Well, I don’t know where it’s coming from.”
Me: “You don’t see any leaking anywhere?”
Her: “Well, water is pouring into my bathroom, but I didn’t do anything.”
Me: “You mean you have a leak? Is it a pipe?”
Her: “I don’t know, it’s just pouring.”
Me: “Is it coming from your ceiling or near the tub or toilet?”
Her: “It’s just pouring around the floor.”
Me: “Can you see if it’s coming from a pipe?”
Her: “I don’t know.”
Me: “Is it coming from under the tub or the toilet?”
Her: “I don’t know.”
Me: “Can I look at it so I can call Rock and have him come in, if it’s a pipe we have to take care of it right now, my kitchen ceiling is pouring water.”
Her: “Who’s Rock?”
Me: “The super.”
Her: “Oh. I don’t know him….Is this building always like this? Cause I’m going to complain.”
Me: “Can I please look at it?
Her: “Well, I don’t know where it’s coming from.”
Me (panicking): “Can I PLEASE look at it??”
And then I practically shoved her out of the way into the apartment (which looks much better than mine btw, guess constant renovating will do that), to see that her bathroom floor has an inch of water over it and the water is coming from her toilet. Not the toilet pipe, but from the actual overflowing toilet.
Me (very drily): “Your toilet is overflowing.”
Her: “I know, but I didn’t do anything. Is this building always like this?”
Me: “Um…yes, that’s generally what happens in this building when you plug the toilet.”
Her: “I’m trying to stop it but I don’t know how it started.”
Me: “Did you use it and then flush it?”
Her: “Yes.”
Me (I am zen, yes I can be zen…): “Do you want a plunger?”
Her: “Yes.”

So I went back downstairs, got my plunger, and brought it to her. And then began the task of cleaning up blonde NYU toilet water from my kitchen, which then leads me here to you good people. I couldn’t go back to bed before documenting the encounter. There’s always the chance that I could snap and I want evidence that the neighbor-murder with a plunger was warranted.

And now, I will have a shot of the absinthe that Drew smuggled back from Scotland before I retire. That should keep her safe, for tonight anyway.

Turns Out I’m Actually Very Shallow After All

So I’ve been in a horrible, depressed funk all week long and going through all sorts of inner dialogue about what I want and need in my life. Turns out I just needed to get drunk have a good time. Who knew?

Went to Motorhead last night and screamed A LOT. I am a fan of the high-pitched “Wooooooooo!!!”, while my new best friend Corinne favors the more guttural and plaintive, “Lemmmmyyyyy!!” My brother uses the standard male shout of “Yeah!!”. And since we kept making our friend Mike go get the beer he had no time to shout anything but “Corona?!”.

Afterwards I abandoned my friends and family like the shallow rock whore that I am and finagled my way backstage. This involved much trying to look nonchalantly hot while standing behind others more famous than me who did the talking. Once we got back there it was the usual clusterfuck of road crew trying to do their job, rock and roll types blocking the way looking for action, and giant security jerks barking at everyone to move. Good times.

Ended up alone w/Lemmy for a few minutes in his dressing room, I sat on his lap like a good girl and he poured me a jack and coke. We had an interesting talk about his having a vein cauterized in his heart, they had to go through a vein in his leg. Turns out 30 years of constant speed usage can cause arrhythmia. Again, I must use the phrase: who knew?

I told him I think he’s going to just go and go like a motherfucker until he drops one day, and he agreed. I have a friend who said that this is the kind of conversation that everyone dreams of having with Lemmy Kilmeister. I think you just have to catch him when he’s feeling contented. I haven’t had a real conversation w/him for years so it was a nice surprise.

He has three loves—sex, drugs, and rock and roll. And while he’s the coolest guy on the planet, if you’re not providing one of those things he doesn’t have time to slow down for your ass. I’ve never been a fan of speedy powders and he gave up on trying to get me in the sack a long time ago, so it was wonderful to hang alone w/him for a minute. He is not a close friend in the every day sense of the phrase, but I have a great fondness in my heart for him. To me he is the embodiment of rock and roll spirit, and is a true gentleman to boot.

Then it was on to some of the usual bars to meet up with my patient friends, where I continued to drink jack and coke in honor of the evening, completely forgetting that I have a low tolerance for whiskey, sugar and caffeine. So within a very short period of time I was not only completely loaded, but bouncing off the walls like an eight year old the day after Halloween. I was FLYING. Again, good times.

Well, for me anyway: my boyfriend Drew hooked up with us halfway through the night and I could see the terror in his eyes as I spun around the room. That man suffers! He claimed it was all very Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, but it’s his own fault. When we first hooked up my brother took him aside and said, “Run, man! Run while you can. You don’t know what you’re getting into. She’s smarter and meaner than you, and you don’t stand a chance!” So he knew what he was getting into.

Anyway, at some point Mike just stopped making any sense but wouldn’t shut up, so I decided to lick his forehead in a sugar and bourbon fueled attempt to affectionately slime some cohesion into his wasted brain. Drew said he wouldn’t kiss me if I didn’t stop licking Mike’s head and Mike just continued to talk nonsense, so eventually that plan had to be abandoned in failure.

We didn’t see Motorhead again that night. There was some talk of them going to Snitch, but I later heard that Phil Campbell and Mickey the drummer ended up at Niagara, and that Lemmy went to Scores w/my myspace acquaintance Rocka Rolla and her girlfriends. I think she’ll probably post a blog later on if you’re interested.

So I am feeling so much more cheerful than I have all week long. Turns out there was no existential crisis, I was just too sober and not getting enough attention from aging rock stars. Maybe all that sugar helped, too. And just when I was feeling all deep and ready to do some very serious blogging…

As I type this, Mike is at his desk at his job with his head in his hands. He claims he has no recollection of the head licking and doesn’t remember what was so all fired important that he couldn’t stop talking about it. Here is the one photo I got from last night. I look absolutely terrible in this one, but Lemmy seems pretty perky, no?


On Beauty One More Time

After writing that first blog on beauty I was overwhelmed by the messages I got and have been meaning to post a follow-up since then…

I was very surprised that pretty much everyone who had something to say feels or has felt essentially the same way. We have all, even the most physically beautiful of the people I heard from, felt less than, humiliated, hurt or just unworthy at certain times because we didn’t feel attractive enough. Isn’t that crazy?? Especially when I think of how many gorgeous people I know.

I was horribly sick recently and it really put things into perspective as well. It was the worst flu I have had in a long time, with a sore throat so bad that swallowing brought tears to my eyes and made my ears ache. I was only able to crawl from the bed to the couch and back again for four days, completely weak and totally uncomfortable. It was misery! So this made me think about how lucky I am to be the healthy person that I usually am.

All of this beauty stuff is completely moot when your health isn’t there and I am going to try to give my body a little more love for being strong and carrying me every day instead of constantly examining it for flaws. I get so focused on the little stupid things at times that I forget to look at the big picture. Millions of people have bodies that are uncomfortable to be in or don’t work properly, or they have lost their families to genocide, or live in abject poverty. I am healthy and relatively affluent compared to much of the world. What right do I have to fester over minor details?

And then I read the most amazing quote by a life coach named Martha Beck: “The longing to be beautiful is fundamentally a longing to be free from shame.” How brilliant is THAT? And the other quote I loved is from James, who says that if you REALLY look at someone, you realize everyone is beautiful.

If you follow that first train of thought, then, what we really need to strive for instead of beauty, is shamelessness. When we’re really young we don’t have the filter to accept or reject what people say to and about us, we just accept it all and suffer the pain of that rejection.

But we are adults now, and have a choice. We can choose to surround ourselves with people who support us and then we can be shameless about who we are, and shameless about admitting our fears and insecurities. I am noticing that it is extremely freeing to just be honest about my own neuroses and sorrows, because the people in my life respond in kind. And then instead of feeling shitty about myself I get to feel happily connected to someone else. And isn’t that the whole point of being in these bodies anyway?

As for the second train of thought, I did a little experiment with myself and spent a day looking for beauty in every person I passed on the street. This is not an easy experiment for a misanthrope like myself, but it was really interesting, and I suggest you try it. I tried to be objective and look at humans the way I do dogs, because to me every dog I see on the street is gorgeous, no matter how ratty or fat or mongrel.

And it worked—I started to see that every single person had something, at least one thing, beautiful about them. Then after a short time of doing that I started feeling very open and happy, instead of the usual hating everyone and wondering if they got dressed in the dark. When you really look at people as individuals you stop comparing each person to the ridiculous standards we have come to accept as real and just see the interesting and lovely in each person’s face.

Those magazine standards just aren’t real and I don’t want to hang onto them anymore. There is a biological breeding imperative which naturally leans towards the symmetrical, but other than that, all that other stuff we take as truth because we see it in the media is just commercial sales. It’s airbrushing and some person that I don’t know or care about deciding that thin and tall or very, very young is the only kind of physicality that deserves love. So then we feel ashamed and unworthy because we don’t fit that mold, and we buy all sorts of products to try to get closer to that ideal.

And I’ll probably always buy the damn products because I know I’m just one moisturizer away from a perfect life, but I really, really want to stop buying the bullshit. It only supports a tiny fraction of the world population, and it definitely doesn’t support me or you in any kind of honest or loving way. It doesn’t even support the girls photographed with the products, really.

So I got a very freeing lesson with that last blog, I came clean about something fairly minor and got interesting information and some deep human connection in return. So I am all about being truthful these days. Truth equals beauty, forgiveness equals beauty, an open heart brings us beauty. And I know this entry is a little corny but I wanted to tell you that, and to tell you how grateful I am for everything you guys had to say on the subject.


Auntie Raff’s How to Screw Around with Rock Stars

Ladies, Ladies, LADIES…

I am watching you younger nymphs flail around like gasping fish in the air, and it is simply not pretty. A little dignity, please! I am out of the game and have been for quite some time, but if you will, allow me to bestow the benefit of experience upon you with a few tried and true rules of the playing field. Mama is here to set you pretty things straight:

1. Do not, upon first hooking up with your rock star, keep repeating things like, “Oh my God, I NEVER do things like this!” or “Oh, gosh, I just cannot believe I’m doing this! It’s so unlike me, you know, I’m not a GROUPIE or anything!!” He has heard this a million, trillion times and believed it never, and it makes you look disingenuous.

2. If you have just wrangled yourself a shiny new rock star at a show or afterparty or random bar and the two of you go back to his hotel room, don’t get all comfy after the act and plan on spending the whole night unless he totally begs you. And that means begs for real, not the begging you are imagining in your brain as you lay there pretending he wants you to stay while all signs point otherwise. Is he yawning and channel surfing as you natter on about never having done this before? This means it is time to put your leather pants back on and scram.

Added incentive: picture the morning walk of shame, hair flat and makeup crusty, past gathered band members, management and crew as they collect themselves to move on to the next town. Hear the rhythm of your nighttime heels in the lobby carpet as you run this grueling gauntlet. Those shoes are whispering, “She’s a whore, she’s a whore, she’s a whore…” SO much classier to give him a big smooch on the cheek, say “Laters, Handsome”, and grab a cab in the safety and cover of darkness. If you want, write your number in lipstick on a napkin and toss it on the dresser. He will be much more inclined to use it if you’re not trying to force a 5 am cuddle.

3. If you like one guy in the band, but another member is hitting on you, don’t go for the second one in the secret hope of being able to hang out and get closer to the first. You may actually get a chance to hook up with the one you really like this way, but it will pit the two against each other, and you will lose. They will hate each other for about two minutes, then they will make up, do that slapping guy hug, and turn on you like rabid dogs. The band is always more important than your continued presence, Darling. Their roadies will hate you, their tour manager will definitely hate you because you will have caused him or her the additional stress of feuding bandmates, and you will always be the slut both band members joke about as bonding bros.

Also, keep in mind that all guys on the road talk with other guys on the road. So if you hook up with another completely separate rock star some other time, the first ones may have had the opportunity to fill in number three about what a tramp you were when they were in town. Trust me on this one, it is both painful and humiliating.

4. Don’t get all nutty and get engaged to the nearest rock star on the spur of the moment just to piss off your ex. This one might just be me, though…

5. If you are in an exclusive spot at your rock star’s show, like at the side of the stage or in the sound board area, don’t flail around like an ass trying to make sure everyone sees you. You know those girls, they display their backstage pass as prominently as possible and wave frantically at their friends while hampering the stage techs’ ability to work. Or they squeal too loudly at people they know and hang over the sound booth wall. Or even worse are those girls that keep edging out from the side of the stage to make sure they can be seen from the audience. Nobody likes this girl and no one thinks she’s cool. They came to see the band, not your groupie ass.

6. Don’t assume you are the only one unless he actually tells you so and you have had more time than one drunken night to assess his honesty. Think about all the hot girls that were in the room the first time you met him. Now multiply that amount by the number of cities he is playing on his tour. And then picture yourself in the same position: if you had that many attractive men available to you who weren’t going to run into each other, wouldn’t you enjoy the company of more than one?

7. Tell your close friends and co-workers everything, but keep your trap shut with the rest of the world. It only makes you look like an insecure bimbo if you keep bringing it up in casual party conversation or posting it on message boards to prove to total strangers that you can pull a famous guy. A true rock and roll babe doesn’t need to advertise her connections.

8. Lastly, and most importantly, show some discretion. Just because a guy has a record deal doesn’t mean he is automatically worthy of your gorgeous naked body. Think Anita Pallenberg as opposed to Sweet, Sweet Connie. I can’t emphasize this one enough, ladies! Class, not crass!! Okay! Heads up, boobs out, stomachs in—now get out there and have some fun… Oh, and if you like metal guys and want to see how other girls rate them (or if you just find things like this entertaining), check out Donna Anderson’s Penis Chart on Metal Sludge: http://www.metalsludge.tv/main/index.php?module=subjects&func=viewpage&pageid=381

We are Motorhead and We’re Gonna KICK YOUR ASS

OMG, March is going to RAWK!! Motley Crue is playing, then Motorhead, then Queens of the Stone Age!! I may have to bust out some stretch vinyl for the first show, and the second two will just feature a lot of hopping up and down with glee.

Okay, now I don’t want all these blogs to be tired old walks down memory lane, because I actually do have a life now. But since I put up the tattoo blog a few people have been sending messages asking what it was like to tour with Motorhead, and since they’re playing NYC soon, I thought I’d do up a little report for ya…

HOW I SPENT MY MOTORHEAD TOUR
Europe 1991

We sucked majorly at Hammersmith in London on the first night, petrified girls hiding behind mikes in front of the not very enthused few people who showed up early (possibly accidentally) and various people we were hoping to impress, including one fairly famous in London ex-boyfriend who I had screwed up with so badly a year prior that I know he was secretly pleased to see such a deserved and humiliating crash and burn. But Lemmy came backstage immediately afterwards to give us some pointers on how not to suck (“Walk to the front of the stage once in a while, ladies…”).

Spent every single night of the tour standing at the side of the stage waving a beer and shouting to other band members: “Oh my God!! We’re on tour with MOTORHEAD!!”

A case of Boilermakers in a can ended up on our bus—beer with a shot of whiskey already added. In a can! So convenient! This concoction was considered too foul even by Motorhead’s crew and so they very kindly donated the case to us. Spent days weaving down the aisle of the bus with these cans in my hand, swearing “Theesh arn s’bad, rilly!” Not surprisingly, we all developed a great tolerance for strong European beer, plus a penchant for vodka and Red Bull, which was not yet available in the States and enabled one to continue drinking well into the night.

One of the many dubious results of our newly developed alcoholism was that our makeup got thicker and more ornate as time went on, until by the end of the tour we were drawing great eyeliner lines up towards our eyebrows like Divine.

Motorhead chipped in and got us hotel rooms when we couldn’t afford them. How often does a headlining band do that for their openers?

A week into the tour and in a completely Spinal Tap moment, we received the first copies of our CD, which turned out to have a photo of a naked male ass on the cover. Yes, a naked male ass. To which Venus could only shriek, over and over: “Oh my God! There’s an ass on our record cover! There’s an ASS on our record cover!! THERE’S AN ASS ON OUR RECORD COVER!!!”

Fell head first and stark naked out of the top bunk of the tour bus (in front of everyone—band and crew) and cut my head open, thus garnering the title of Official Bunk Diving Champion. Alcohol was rumored to have played a part in the fall.

Every time we got near a phone we would prank call my sister over and over again. To which she responded, “Are you guys so uncool that the only thing you have to do is spend all your money prank calling me all the way from Europe??” Well, um, yes, actually.

Before entering the Nordic countries we wrote out a list of appropriate phrases and their translations to carry with us, such as, “Do you think I’m hot?”, “How old are you?”, “Get rid of your girlfriend”, and “My room number is…”

Honey 1 Percenter (She Wolf on myspace!) got some fabulously dirty notes from Philthy, who had very ingeniously affixed a small fan to a hanger and often wore it around his head for cooling purposes. We surmised that it assisted him in the creative writing process as well.

Had gentle and loving caterers who fed us with great care and talent. As a result of this and the previously mentioned alcohol consumption, we put on a few pounds, to which Lemmy was often heard to comment, “Girls, lay off the catering table already, will ya?”

Members of Motorhead often took an overnight bag and rode on our bus for the long trips, which was great fun. They always outlasted the girls in party mode and often complained that we weren’t putting out the way Girlschool did. On these nights Lemmy was particularly fond of singing his lyrics into my ear, which was handy for discovering which songs I’d been singing the wrong words to all those years.

Got sick one night and vomited in front of the bus headlights as famed guitar tech extraordinaire Depford John was walking by. He shoved his hand in the vomit and waved it in my face and shouted “Rooowwrrrr!” This prompted me to vomit again but was very impressive nonetheless.

Motorhead was filmed at a show in Munich for a documentary which was released a few years later. Munich hated us and pelted us with hard candy (got it in the forehead, thanks a lot, fucking Munich!), to which members of Motorhead responded most gallantly by wearing as much CSFH gear as possible when they got on stage. The film’s director was a sexist and demented creep, so when he filmed a bit where the girls came onstage and pretended to play sax during the MH set he edited it to only show our boobs and butts. But every shot of MH features another piece of Slut swag.

Got a really crappy spur of the moment tattoo at Hanky Panky in Amsterdam. The guy who did it dug so hard the whole thing scarred up. Later that night Motorhead cancelled the show because the Paradiso didn’t put a stage extension on as previously requested. Fans mini-rioted, burning t-shirts and shouting very nasty things and we had to sneak out of the club with our heads covered. Since this was the last night of the tour our wonderful caterers made a celebratory hash cake, which we (of course) promptly consumed while waiting to see if the show was going to happen. As a result I fuzzily stalled out mid-escape to stand in the middle of the melee and watch dreamily, until a Dutch friend dragged me out of the fray before I was spotted. Spent the rest of the night in the hotel bar unable to form sentences.

Philthy was given some trouble when we came from France back into the UK for some videos he had purchased in a dubious Dutch entertainment establishment. The police brought drug dogs on our bus and the dogs sniffed the bus kitchen table quite a bit, because even though we’d wiped it in a panic, let’s face it we were wasted slobs at that point and there was residue left behind from two months of rampant drug abuse. But they finally left and we breathed a sigh of relief, able to live to ruin our bodies with chemicals and alcohol for another day.

And then sadly, sadly we bid the boys adieu and teetered onto the plane home, back to NY to dry out and get dropped by our label before the record ever got released in the states. C’est la vie… But lastly, I am happy and proud to report that I am mentioned as a crush in Lemmy’s autobiography (page 232!), not by name, but at least I know it’s me, goddamnit. And now you do, too. Love on ya, rock and rollers!

Memories of Joey Ramone

Today in the freezing, freeeeezing cold I walked past Joey Ramone’s old apartment building on 9th Street. It made me think of other winter nights on that block and what a special guy he was, and what a loss it is not to have him around. 
Here are some of my memories: 
When I was a teenager I brought home Rocket To Russia from the record store (where I had it ordered specially) and my neighbor got off his bike to take a look at what I’d bought. He said, very quietly: “That’s punk rock, isn’t it?” I said, “Yeah…” 

Joey was the first rock star I met when I moved to NY from the sticks of Michigan. He was leaning up against the bar at Danceteria not really talking to anyone. It was the same night Hanoi Rocks played, and I couldn’t believe one of my rock heroes could be found just loitering around the bar. I went up and said, “Hi, I’m Raffaele.” He said “I’m Joey,” and shook my hand. A couple of hours later I picked up Blixa Bargeld for about two minutes, until he tried to dangle me off of the balcony of the Limelight (the fact that he had bits of his wife’s hair stapled to his leather vest should have been a tip-off).

A few years down the road Joey gave my band the Cycle Sluts an opening slot for The Ramones at the Ritz. It was our second gig ever and it put us on the map. He was always such a champion for new bands, he just really loved rock and roll. During that period we were constantly yanking on him and screaming drunkenly, in unison, into his face. We had this drunken, bastardized ballet move we made everyone do with us and Joey didn’t have the greatest balance so he would just lift his foot off the floor a few inches to shut us up.

The Sluts hosted many after-hours parties at “Slutquarters” on 4th and B that featured him as a regular. We all did a ton of coke in those days and one night he had some very friendly South American dealers with him that had mounds of the stuff. One kept waving the loaded mirror in my face and saying, “For you, for you!” Joey was always quiet and we were always really, really loud. I think he liked the noise. Later that night (morning) he fell asleep in a chair and we just continued to party around him.

One night at the Lismar Lounge, where we all worked and hung out, a few members of a certain bike club who also hung out there decided they had a problem with Joey. I don’t remember why, but it was a dangerous situation. There were a few truly terrifying minutes when they locked him and someone else (Daniel Rey, maybe?) into the deli next door. One of the Lismar bartenders, who somehow was seeing both one of the bike club members and Joey at the same time, ran out and threw herself at the door and begged them not to hurt him. It was one of those scenes that make you feel so scared you get nauseous inside, but somehow it ended up all right. I think Joey was so gentle that they just decided not to bother.

Joey wearing only his leather jacket and ripped jeans in the freezing cold at the Pet Sematary video shoot.

Joey on the roof of Coney Island High for a barbeque, eating a hot dog and smiling.

The sound of his voice, saying “Hey Raff…”

Going to the cloisters to film a video for Joey’s protégées, The Independents. I was dressed as a vampire queen and I walked slowly, trying to look very serious without cracking up, down cement stairs in a cape towards Joey, who was standing a few feet behind the camera. He said, “That was great, Raff.” Later in the car he put some money in my hand, which I hadn’t asked for or expected.

Being on the train w/my ex Jesse after we got the news Joey was dead, just staring out the window and feeling sad.

I wasn’t one of his closest friends, but I like to think that he counted me as more than an acquaintance. I know I’ll never walk past the corner of 9th Street and 3rd Avenue without thinking of him with affection. He was a true rock star and a truly lovely person, and I’m looking forward to seeing him on the other side.