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.
Advertisements

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.

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.

*Sigh…*

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.