I would listen to the same 10 artists if it weren’t for the loving people in my life. I am a classic rock girl and I’d rather listen to Exile on Main Street or Nothing’s Shocking for the nine millionth time than have to get to know someone new. Really, I can count on one hand the new bands that I like, and my friends and family regularly mock me for it.

Drew, who is ten years younger than me and infinitely cooler and more plugged in, has finally come up with a solution. He just puts new stuff on my Ipod without asking, and when I listen to it on shuffle I get hit with a new song every once in a while. Then I get all freaked out for a moment before taking a breath and reassuring myself that it’s only new music and it won’t hurt me. It’s musical shock therapy for the stubborn and retarded.

So recently I told him with a straight face that I believe Nirvana killed the rock and roll party. He burst out laughing and said, “You are UNBELIEVABLE! And did you decide this before or after you downloaded that crap Cinderella album onto the Ipod?” Well, way before of course.

Now before you start squawking, let me clarify. I actually LIKE Nirvana. But I remember the moment the video for Smells Like Teen Spirit hit. My sister (in a burst of uncharacteristic good taste–she usually listens to Enya or Marillion) got all excited about it and insisted I watch it when it came on MTV. Anyway, the album was, as we all know, great. But you could almost hear the good time gears grinding to a halt as soon as it hit the airwaves. Within months Vogue was featuring flannel shirts on uglified models and the last gasp era of the glamorous rock star died.

Rock and roll was my whole life focus from the time I was 13, maybe even earlier. My mother says that when I was a baby I would dance in front of the TV when the Beatles or Stones came on. It truly did save my soul as I was stuck in a small town and totally hating life and the people around me. Rock music and the gorgeous creatures who created it helped me to finally feel connected to something. Suddenly I wasn’t alone anymore, and I put up posters all over my room and stayed up all night listening to Aerosmith (this was well before the pods took them) over and over and over again in those giant headphones. So the 80’s rock scene was an extension of that early teen energy for me, and it was the period that I landed in NY and got to be a part of the thing I had always lived for and adored.

When grunge happened I didn’t mind that hair volume went down or that guys toned down the makeup usage, as things were getting a little stupid at that point (Britny Fox, anyone?). But I really enjoyed the long haired boys (some might say too much on that one), the local rock scene and the balls-out enthusiasm it contained. There were so many people hanging out on any given night back then that you could fill the Limelight full of people on a Sunday with local bands performing. Don Hill and I still moan sadly over shots of tequila about the Cat Club Wednesdays. Sure it was a bit cheesy, but it was a fucking blast! Now you can’t even fill Continental or CB’s with any regularity. Of course I don’t blame this on grunge, I actually blame it on hip hop. All I’m saying is that the flannel heralded the impending end of the kegger.

So now here I am, a total dinosaur, lumbering around complaining about the complete lack of rock stars in the world and yelling at the kids I work with that they wouldn’t know a good time or decent music if it bit them in the ass. They roll their eyes and let me play Bowie or BRMC (thanks, Drew!) for a little while, and then put Mariah Carey or Beyonce back on when they think I’m not paying attention. It’s so sad. When did I become extinct? I’m like someone’s out-of-date parent. And on a side note—how can people possibly enjoy listening to Mariah Carey? I swear to God every time I hear her sing I feel like my soul is being punctured. And then one of the kids actually had the audacity to tell me that Beyonce is his generation’s Tina Turner. I had to double over and breathe slowly on that one.

Once in a while something comes along that makes me feel the rock, like the last QOTSA show or Motorhead. But most of the time I’m at the bar grumbling while whatever lame non-rocking rock band fiddles about onstage, looking and sounding all normal with their beige shoes and short hair. I wanna watch a hot rock star once in a while, dammit, not the guy who fixes my computer. I think all bands should contain at least one person you want to fuck. I think you shouldn’t be able to go from the stage to the grocery store with nary a second glance from the shoppers. I love Marilyn Manson because he takes the time to put some lipstick on. I think Zeppelin rules and I yearn for a pre-breakdown Axl Rose. I yearn for the death of hip hop and modern R & B, I yearn for the kids I work with to stop torturing me with Madonna, and I suppose, yes…I yearn for my youth.



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?

Don’t Know How Much Longer I Can Take NYC

So today it was nice out and I decided to take the dog for a walk. 
I was strolling down Avenue A between 6th and 7th, carrying the damn dog because there were so many people on that block, and rambling on my cell happily to my boyfriend Drew. All of a sudden I’m rammed from the side by an overfed NYU type running down the street with a pack of her friends. They’re all giggling and thinking they’re being really cute and so wild and crazy banging into people as they run.

No apology, no shouts of “Sorry!” Just acting like they’re the cleverest things that ever had a drink in the afternoon.

So, my dog, who is a neurotic mess and has these weird gagging seizures whenever he gets stressed out, gets all upset because he just got slammed into, and starts gagging. And I, being myself, immediately react angrily and start screaming, “You fat, fucking NYU skank, you think it’s funny to ram into people, yuppie fucking, fucking bitch!! You fucking BITCH!!”

You get the picture, just cursing and nearly inarticulate and completely insane. I can tell two of the people in front of me are friends of the running girls because they sort of giggle sheepishly to themselves, which just makes me madder and I continue to yell like a crazy person while my dog gags and squirms and Drew is quiet on the other end of the phone waiting for me to calm down. He is used to my outbursts. One time I was talking to him and had to pause to beat the side of a car with the phone. But that’s another story.

So then the whole group of giggling, annoying, yuppie fuckheads swing into Niagara, which is owned by someone I am very close to, and this makes me even madder. If I’d had another person with me I would have handed them the dog and ran in and shoved the bitch across the room, thereby instigating a totally unnecessary afternoon bar brawl.

I know that my reaction was a little nutty, but I FUCKING HATE THESE PEOPLE. They own my neighborhood now, they’ve taken over my building and are the people that populate the streets I walk on and the bars I visit my friends in. They clog up my world with their stupid sense of entitlement and lack of imagination and there’s nothing I can do about it except act like a lunatic on the street periodically.

So I really think I am ready to leave NYC. I am just not sure how to go about it and where to go. LA, maybe, but honestly I don’t know if I can take being around all that plastic. My friend Shelley is always telling me to move there, but he loves hookers and and Pam Anderson wanna-bes A LOT. Me, not so much. But I can’t take New York anymore.

From the time I was a little kid I knew I wanted to live here, and when I got here it was just the greatest place in the world, and it continued to be great for many years. But now it is jam-packed full of the same kind of people I left back home. I didn’t mind living in a tiny little box because when I left the apartment there was a wonderful, creative, fun world outside my door. The East Village was full of people I wanted to get to know, there was a real community of freaks here.

Now I still live in a box, but when I get outside there are only these hideous, horrible people who actually think they’re really hip. And you and I know they are anything but. And there are tons of them! So I am announcing to the Universe that I am ready for a change. Maybe not immediately, but soon, within the next couple of years, I am going to have to find a new way to live. Hopefully a way that includes larger living quarters and a yard of some sort so my retarded dog can stroll unmolested by drunken NYU students. Any suggestions will be gladly considered.

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.

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: http://www.metalsludge.tv/main/index.php?module=subjects&func=viewpage&pageid=381