In the Don’t Try This at Home Category

Especially after that last blog, you’d think I’d be old enough know better: 
Took a half a xanax at the beginning of the night on Saturday, something I very rarely do. I am generally an alcohol and Advil kind of girl. But what the hell. So Motorhead was great, as usual, except they had to leave the stage for a few minutes midway because of annoying sound problems. Also, the set was short and it was so crowded we stayed in the back and felt a little removed. 

I went backstage for a minute but didn’t see Lemmy and the crew because there was a wait and I didn’t want to be a selfish jerk and make my friends wait outside in the cold.

My favorite part of the evening (what I can remember): Harlequinn saying “Hookers! I see hookers everywhere!” Ain’t it the truth, sister!

But then afterwards, all happy and full of rock and roll, went to Niagara and started drinking shots of tequila, completely forgetting about the xanax. Suffice to say I have absolutely no recollection of the second half of the evening. I do remember someone saying, “You’re drunk!”, which of course I most indignantly denied.

I woke up in full makeup (including eyelashes), jewelry in the sheets, behind the bed, under the pillow, clothing in a trail from the door. My bf came in panicked and said, “Why did I sleep on the couch? Did we have a fight?” Nope, we had a major lapse in judgement and that’s where he passed out, in his clothes.

Somewhere in the mayhem I lost my bank card and driver’s license, so I spent the afternoon in a haze searching for them, then gave up and got a manicure, practically nodding out in the middle. Chinese nail lady: “You so tired!!” Um, yes, working so hard you know…

If you were anywhere near me Saturday night between midnight and 3 am, I do apologize.

But–in the My Boyfriend Rocks category: Last night a gunning female fan tried to pull off one of his rings (he is famed drummer extraordinaire Drew Thomas), and he stopped her, saying, “Don’t. My girlfriend gave that to me.” To which she responded: “Your girlfriend scares me.” And he said, “Yep. She is scary. My girlfriend is BAD ASS.” That’s right, bitch. Get your hands off my man or I might wreck you and not remember it in the morning.


On Beauty

Myspace has me thinking a lot about women and beauty this week.

I am fascinated by the different ways that women present themselves on this site. First, there are the porn types, who all have thousands of friends and most likely some major childhood sexual abuse lurking under the surface. These girls are only interesting for the gross-out factor.

Then there are the pin-up girls. I blame the Pussycat Dolls and Dita Von Teese for this bunch. This is an aesthetic that I really love, but lately it seems that every chick with a half decent ass and a friend with a camera is bending over in front of a jukebox. Many of them, when you look closely, are not really that cute and most of the ladies on this current bandwagon just seem a little desperate for attention.

In the third category are girls like me–and most likely you, if you are my friend and reading this–posting flattering pictures of themselves that may or may not be sexy but are not completely sexualized. We want you to see us as attractive and desireable but we’re not so desperate for your love that we’ve changed our last name to Tequila and shoved our boobs into the camera.

And lastly are the girls that just don’t give a shit and post goofy or ugly photos on purpose. I like those girls and their lack of vanity, or maybe, their vanity in a different direction.

It is interesting to me how we all create a persona on here and then elaborate upon that persona with photos, lists, descriptions, demands and blogs. And the majority of girls/women, myself included, want to paint a physically beautiful persona. I know that what I am presenting to the world through this page is the facet I want you to see. It is me, but it’s not the whole truth of who I am.

When I was a preteen and teen, up until the age of 16, I wore very thick glasses and was so shy I was unable to speak to anyone outside my immediate circle. I was a very goofy looking kid, a total egghead, and all I wanted to do was hide out in the house and read. My dad used to look at me sadly and say, “Don’t you have any parties you want to go to?”

One time I was walking down the hall in school and noticed two boys at their lockers looking intently at me as I walked by. As I got close one of them sneered and said to me: “Dog…” I was crushed by the cruelty of it, and I realized at that moment that there were two different worlds, the world of light for pretty girls and the world of invisibility or scorn for the ugly ones.

For women, beauty is way, way more important than for men. It helps a man in this world, but it doesn’t dictate who he is. A man’s worth is measured by what he achieves, his money, his power, his fame. A woman can achieve these things too but she will always be judged on her looks as well. An ugly man with money and fame can always have a beautiful woman. The opposite is not as true.

I think that’s why there aren’t really male groupies the way there are female, either. Women get a lot of power and status through who they can attract, men who are primarily good looking without their own power or status are not valued in the same way. I know these are generalizations, and they may be changing, but I believe them to be true.

So anyway, I got contact lens for my 16th birthday and grew out a very short haircut and bought some new clothes. Some people in school thought I was new, and one day shortly thereafter I was walking through a parking lot and heard someone whistle. I thought, “Why do people have to be so mean?”

I was so upset at being mocked, but when I went home I sat down in front of the mirror and scrutinized myself. After about 15 minutes of just staring I realized with a shock that I was actually not that bad, and maybe the whistle was for real. It was like the clouds parted, and my life changed from that day on.

My very close friend and ex Jesse used to always say that one of the things that he really liked about me was that I wasn’t constantly trying to prove that I was smart, like the other girls he dated always did. I said it was because I never had to bother proving that I was smart. It was the pretty part that took some work to get to!

So now fast forward through many years of being the hot girl in the room, or at least one of the hot girls in the room. It has become a major portion of my identity, and it is the currency that I deal in. It is not my only currency, but it is a major source of funding and probably my favorite. I am used to being treated a certain way because of the way I look. Any pretty woman who tells you otherwise is lying. But I am reaching an age where I am being forced to really think about what this means, and what it means to me.

I am genetically fortunate and have a good maintenance routine. I look younger than I am, and the gym is my friend. But I am not 20 and I can see that my face is changing. I know that the day will come soon when I will have to step out of the race. I work with a girl of about 22 who is absolutely, drop dead gorgeous and I can see myself become invisible to certain people when we are both standing in the room. It doesn’t bother me because the people that pay attention to her are unimportant to me, but it always reminds me that I am currently morphing into a different species.

And that is absolutely terrifying to me. Who am I if I am not beautiful? I’ve been on the other side and I don’t want to go back there. I have always had moments of panic over this, and during one I tattooed the word “beautiful” on my inner arm. It is to remind me that everything is okay, I am okay, life is beautiful, we are all beautiful, there is nothing to fear in our own imperfections and we are indeed beautiful with those imperfections. Nearly every woman I meet gets it immediately while a lot of men don’t. Which is not to discredit the wonderful men in the world, it’s simply to say that they don’t live with the situation in the same way that we do.

I have great sympathy for those aging plastic surgery nightmares you see in high end boutiques like the one I work in. It just never works–they don’t look young, they’re just old ladies with pulled faces, usually with those trannie lips that no one buys for a second. Some of them have great bodies and they try on completely inappropriate clothing and pose in front of the mirror, pouting and pulling their heads back to get the best angle. They usually flirt with the one straight boy we have in the store and he humors them for the sale.

I think these women just weren’t able to make the transition and develop a different character to take the place of the pretty girl they once were. So there they are, desperately trying to remain still while their body continues to change. Maybe they were beautiful from day one and never had any reason to develop any character or skill. Then one day they woke up from the dream and the surgery began.

They are laughable and tragic but lately I am understanding where they are coming from. I am closer to them than I like to readily admit, but not so close that I can’t write about it with a sense of humor. I am starting to believe that growing up an unattractive kid was not such a bad thing after all, because it’s given me enough character and depth to avoid becoming one of those women. And I won’t go down without a fight.

But I don’t want this whole myspace thing to be about presenting a flat surface of who I want people to think I am. Otherwise it’s pointless and there’s too much of that out there already. So I’m putting some realness out there tonight for ya. We’re all beautiful, we’re all ugly. We all get old. In the end we just are who we are, lovely in our imperfection and maybe the better for it.

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:

10 Signs That We re in the Decline of Western Civilization

Please feel free to add your own as these are off the top of my head…

1. George Bush: You know I have to head the list with him.

2. Gina Gershon: 5 words—Prey For Rock & Roll. Um, eeuw.

3. Ashleigh Simpson: Just how much TV time does she need to download our souls?

4. Jamie Kennedy in Son of the Mask.

5. Jennifer Lopez: Luckily that weasely looking rebound husband of hers is keeping her down.

6. Hip hop and all its bloated and overpaid denizens: There, I’ve said it, someone had to and you know it’s true. Seemed like a good idea when Run DMC and Aerosmith were rubbing noses, plus Missy Elliott is amazing and I love when Busta Rhymes shoves his face in the camera and shouts “Woo Ha!” But overall it’s just ruined both black and white culture completely. Take a look at Wattstax next time it’s on IFC and tell me that black culture wasn’t a million times cooler pre hip hop.

7. Victoria Gotti and her monkeyboy offspring: Low IQ’s anyone? Their hairlines are in the middle of their foreheads for God’s sake. Which leads me to…

8. Reality shows: Although I will admit that I watch America’s Next Top Model, because it’s fun to watch wannabe models torture each other and Tyra Banks is such a raging egomaniac that I can’t wait to hear what stupid thing is going to come out of her mouth next. I sometimes wonder if she might be the seventh sign (the Guf!).

9. Good Charlotte. Okay, maybe I’m just padding out the list with this one, but they do annoy the hell out of me.

10. Our overall obsession and glorification of all things plastic: everyone has to be pretty to have value now, and our deities are celebrities. We worship at the altar of surface and our culture suffers mightily for it. Would Janis Joplin have any kind of real success if she was starting out today? Think about it.

Okay now you give me yours…

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…

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!

And Another Thing!

Don’t you hate it when you leave the house feeling reasonably cute, like your hair is good, the outfit is flattering, you got enough sleep the night before, etc., and then as you’re walking cheerfully down the street you are passed by a better version of yourself? She’s exactly your same type, except she’s a little bit taller, her outfit is better, her hair is thicker and longer, and she’s prettier than you. Makes you want to pick up a chunk of ice and throw it at her head. 
Not that this has ever happened to me, of course.

Tattoo You

Two things have me thinking about tattoos today: 
One, my boyfriend’s band had one of their songs on an episode of the O.C., so we were forced to watch that ungodly show a few days ago. How does anyone watch this crap? To me it’s further proof that we are in the middle of the fall of the empire (other signs: George Bush, Ashleigh Simpson, Good Charlotte, Gina Gershon, the list goes on and on…).

So on this show is one character who’s supposed to be really rock and roll. She’s bisexual (because you know, all rock chicks are) and she has one pretty little tattoo of a butterfly on her arm. All rock chicks on TV have one small but visible tattoo.

And then yesterday I was in the gym, surly as always when exercising, and near me is a little girl bossing her dorky boyfriend around the weights. I catch her looking intently at my arm, but I ignore it (being surly and all), then two minutes later I glance over and see that she’s tied her shirt up in the back, revealing an obviously new lower back tattoo of yes, butterflies. I actually like butterflies, but there is no such thing as coincidence.

It’s my theory that the lower back tattoo has become the polyester of tattoos through much overuse and abuse. I also feel that the eyebrow ring is the polyester of piercings. It just dominates the whole face and looks like the person wanted to have something they could take out easily when they go home for the holidays. And I won’t even get started on the belly button ring except to say that if you have one you’d might as well just get some fake boobs and start stripping this very second.

Anyway, I thought it was very cute and flattering that she wanted everyone in the gym to know that she’s a badass, too. I felt like an old crabby lion next to a puffed up kitten. And it got me thinking about tattoos and what they mean now, which is pretty much nothing.

When I got my first tattoo, I only knew one tattooed girl. She had huge, gorgeous red flowers over her shoulder and down her back. It’s still the most beautiful tattoo I’ve ever seen. But we hated each other and never discussed it. Now she works as a personal assistant to someone famous in LA and we email regularly, time healing wounds and all. She just sent me a great recipe for pumpkin bread pudding with caramel sauce.

ANYWAY, at the time I wanted a very tough guy type of tattoo and got a traditional panther on my arm chosen from the flash on the wall. It could have been worse, the guy I went with got a skull with a top hat and a cigarette (rock and roll!). And another friend of mine was a real arrogant ass to the tattoo artist and he ended up with the Zeppelin Icharus logo with six fingers on each hand. I think that’s my favorite tattoo ever.

Then there was a girl I met once during Guns n’ Roses heyday who had gotten a tattoo of Axl on her arm. She’d used a photo where he hadn’t shaved and so it looked like Axl had a pencil mustache a la John Waters. Without a doubt one of the most ill-conceived I’ve seen.

As for Axl himself, I met him at the Pyramid right before G n’ R played their first NY show at the Ritz. He was sitting at the bar next to me and when I looked at his tattoo and he looked at me we both started laughing because it looked so much like me. He said it was his ex-girlfriend. But I digress, as usual.

Then we go on tour with Motorhead and I am in Amsterdam, already addled from a couple of months of steady European beer consumption (weight gain, anyone?) and a day of Dutch hash, and Donna (Honey 1 Percenter) and I decide we need tattoos from the famous Hanky Panky studios to commemorate the tour and our very wasted state of mind. I choose an American Indian type band to go under the panther, and the lumbering oaf that works on me digs so hard that it causes major scarring. Years later someone tells me that the band represents a bird with a broken wing and it’s bad luck. Um, oops.

So now it’s 2005 and I’ve got a bunch more tattoos, each with a story. I’m fairly happy with everything since Mike Ledger was kind enough to spend 8 hours consolidating what had become an ungainly mishmash of separates. The only downside is that one tattoo I have caused a person I care about some pain, which was a definite sorrow. On the flipside it was commemorated in a song and truthfully the person did deserve a little punishment. But that’s all enquiring minds are gonna get out of me on that one.

And my point, you ask? Well, none really, I’m rambling now (now??). But I have been thinking about tattoos and how much they meant to me years ago. It did mean a lot at one point. I chose to get tattooed to declare myself as part of an outsider tribe, one of the people that took the subculture of NYC and rock and roll so seriously that they were willing to ruin all chances of a day job or a nice, straight husband.

Now the point is completely moot because everyone and their mother is tattooed, and sometimes I think it’s cooler not to have any. But then I’ll sit down with one of my close friends, like the heavily tattooed and fiercely ruling Kim Montenegro (“Monty” on my left arm both for her and my extraordinary cat Monty Lemieux) and look at all her ink and her crazy face with her nose and her lip pierced and I’ll remember who I am and why I started the mess in the first place.

It doesn’t matter so much that it’s outwardly meaningless, because we know when we look at each other that it’s an important part of who we are, and it binds us and our friends together. It’s our tribal connection, even if now we are just a tribe of bitchy old rock and roll broads. It has been and still is a wild ride and I wouldn’t change it for all the clean skin in the world. There was a cost and a reward for choosing to live a little bit outside which doesn’t exist anymore. And no puffed up kitten with a butterfly will ever get close to that.