Danceteria and Liz

My mother has been saying for the last few years that many people are choosing to leave the planet because of the energy shift, that they either are not prepared to deal with the changes at this time or they have bigger fish to fry on the other side. Either way I have lost a lot of friends. But I'm also at the age where this is going to happen naturally. When I was young and wild we lost a slew of friends to drug overdoses, suicide, and AIDS. Then things sort of calmed down and the rest of us worked out that we weren't going to die young and leave beautiful corpses as once assumed, so we had to get on with quitting smoking, root canals, and the purchase of non-futon grown-up style beds. Now, as middle age lumbers on, my friends are dying of things like heart attacks and cancer. 

It's weird. I have always known deep down that I will live a long life, and I worry that I will be the last one standing, in orthopedic shoes, the ensuing funeral sparsely attended. As my friend Kim Montenegro likes to say, "Vanity, not sanity!"

Anyway, we lost a good one this week, the beautiful Liz Connor Bursis, to cancer. I spent a lot of time around Liz when I worked at Danceteria in the mid-80's, then lost touch, and then found her again on Facebook. We conversed briefly on there, exchanged rants about Monsanto and the like, and I took comfort that she was in my orbit. But, as with many people, it never went deeper than that. So I didn't know she was sick and then all of a sudden she was gone. So I'm kind of sad that I didn't take advantage of the convenience of the internet to reconnect with her on more than a superficial level.

I would have liked to tell her that she was lovely and a great influence on me at an early age. She showed that a woman could be rock and roll and classy at the same time, and I still look to her energy to this day when I want to channel a peaceful elegance. She was highly intelligent, patient, gentle and almost maternal toward me at a time that I needed some grounding energy. She lived an extremely interesting life, she was a member of the Eulenspiegel Society and told some very interesting tales from her days as a dominatrix. Her story would probably make for a fabulous book or movie, but she never bragged or dramatized.

I have already been writing about my time at Danceteria for the dreaded book, so I thought I would pull this section up for you, which includes my first real interaction with Liz. It's more about me than her (as per usual), but this moment with her is such a vivid memory that I thought it would be appropriate to share.

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1984
Betsey Johnson was a total wash, but I still needed work to survive. It occurred to me one night that a job in the warm cocoon of nightlife might be the perfect situation in which to rub up against rock stars and reside most happily. I turned to Michael Schmidt, as we stood posing on the third floor of Danceteria, and said, "I think I want to work here."

One of the owners, Rudolf Pieper, walked by at that moment. Rudolf was a tall, handsome, urbane German, the official figurehead of Danceteria. His girlfriend was the “celebutante” Dianne Brill, an amazonian nightlife personality with tons of blonde hair, a charming personality and the talent to look booming in a red rubber dress. They were both larger than life personalities and when they entered the room you knew you were in the right place.

Michael touched Rudolf's arm as he strolled past regally, pointed to me and said, "She wants to work here."

Rudolf stopped, looked me up and down and said, in his elegant accent, "Dat's fabooluss. What would you like to do?"

I replied, "Um...I dunno...bartend?" Bartending looked like it could be fun, most likely more profitable than standing in one of the elevators all night moving a switch back and forth, and definitely more comfortable than shivering outside at the door holding a clipboard.

Rudolf said, "You're hired. Come see me tomorrow afternoon at 3."

And with that I was in bartending at one of the hottest clubs in the city. Many people clamored for this job and I stepped into it completely oblivious to the ease of entrance. I was so green that I assumed everyone could just walk up to the owner or manager of any place and get a job they desired. I had no clue about the world I was entering and how my looks played a part in my success and failures; I naively, and truly, just thought it looked like fun and that people were usually nice and gave you what you wanted if it was in their power to do so.

Since I rarely drank anything other than the occasional shared white Russian with Michael, I had no knowledge of spirits or how tips worked, and no understanding of the heavy caste system under which clubs operated: bartenders and DJ's at the top of the food chain, barbacks next, then busboys. The elevator girls were cute filler and doormen and security were respected in their own class.

The ensuing staff hatred and outrage was palpable. Many years later I spoke to a former co-worker about the job and he told me that he had never seen the kind of open and hysterical female outrage that my appearance created, and that he asked to be scheduled with me to see what the fuss was about. But it wasn’t just the women, most of the lesser-employed males wanted my head on a spike as well. The barbacks expressed their disdain openly and generally would not acknowledge me with any kind of greeting or eye contact above a sneer. The bartenders ignored or snorted at my questions, which in retrospect were pretty dumb. Then they would give orders for me to obtain various liquids or items from the barbacks, knowing full well that any request I made would go unfulfilled.

I was absolutely at sea behind the bar. I wore fingerless lace gloves that caught on everything and got soaked. For a short while I was very into the idea of having a tail and fashioned a horse tail with a belt and a faux ponytail, which then got caught on the bottles as I moved back and forth. I went through a platform shoe phase; platforms weren’t available in stores so I had had some custom made in Times Square, very cheaply, and I would wobble uncomfortably around on them behind the bar. A request like "White Label and soda" would necessitate a panicked hobble up and down the back of the bar, poring over the bottles looking for something called White Label, not knowing that it was the same thing as Dewars, which I wouldn't have been able to find anyway. I dropped three ice cubes in a cup, using my hand instead of a scoop, poured three times the proper amount of alcohol, then fumbled with the gun trying to figure out which button gave me which liquid. It must have been dreadful to witness.

A half an hour into my first night Karen Finley took pity and showed me how to pour a drink. Karen was famous at the time for her blistering performance art, which featured acts like smearing canned yams on her nude body and shouting about getting accosted on the subway. She was/is amazing and brave and well-respected in the underground art community. I didn't know that at the time, she just seemed like a really nice, sort of ordinary pretty girl with long brown hair who was willing to help me.

Karen sighed and said, "You fill the cup COMPLETELY up with ice." She scooped ice into the plastic cup. "Then you count to four quickly: one, two, three, four. Then you add soda, then you add a lime, then you add a stirrer. It's not that complicated. If you need to know what's in a drink just ask one of us."

I fumbled through, immensely grateful for this scrap of kindness, while the staff continued to complain about me openly at every opportunity. Rudolf, God bless him, offered to have the club pay my tuition to bartending school, and handed me the number to call. This made the barbacks even angrier. They were spending long nights lugging cases of beer and buckets of ice for the opportunity to serve drinks on any off occasion, and I had teetered to the front of the Saturday night line in cheap lingerie and a bondage cap.

One night, fairly quickly into this career and on a night off, I needed quarters for the cigarette machine. I asked a serious, heavy-set barback named Matt if he could make change for me. He threw me the usual look of disgust and said brusquely, "Change it off the bar."

Liz was bartending that night. She was a beautiful former-dominatrix with a mysterious past who seemed extremely exotic and dangerous to me. Liz was soft-spoken and articulate, with short, close-cropped black hair and a tattoo of a cross with a heart on her arm, which was a big deal as women weren’t tattooing their arms yet. She was in her mid-30’s, which seemed so old to me that it was almost an alien concept to try to wrap the brain around, and had a stern, strong demeanor that intimidated most people. I adored her and was absolutely terrified of her.

As Liz worked, appearing unaware of my presence, I set my two dollars down onto the bar and gingerly picked up quarters from the tips that lay strewn in the slightly dipped well that ran around the inside of the bar. At the third quarter Liz manifested in front of me and snatched my wrist in her hand. She held it, looking straight into my eyes. I nearly peed.

She spoke in a low and menacing tone: "What are you doing?"

"Um...I need quarters for cigarettes. I was making change?" My voice squeaked upward into a question. I'm sure I was blinking and flinching.

"If you need change, you ask. Don't ever touch another bartender's tips."

She quickly collected quarters and dropped them into my shaking hand. As she did so I noticed a slight smile on the fat barback's face as he stood behind her, and realized then that it was a set-up. It was evident at that moment that some of Danceteria didn't love me as much as Rudolf did. This was a whole new territory of meanness that I had never explored before.

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 You are unforgettable. See you on the other side, Darling. 

Destiny!

For weeks now I've been thinking about how people define themselves, and if or how that could alter our destiny.

I have always resisted labeling myself, primarily because I still don't know what I'm supposed to be when I grow up. Plus I think it pigeonholes people, as no one is just one thing. I hated it when I was outside my office job and someone would say, "Oh, that's Raff, she's a bookkeeper." Ugh. So unglamorous, and it totally negated all the other stuff I am. Part of me wanted to shout, "But I'm also a good pet mom and I can write decently and I was once a rock star!" But no one wants to hear someone's lengthy life resume upon introduction, so I'd just wave and smile tightly. And even if a stranger probes around for more details from me, I'm unlikely to hand them over willingly anyway, because (self-examining, too-much-information blog notwithstanding) I hate talking about myself to strangers. It makes me feel squirmy and overexposed.

And once you tell people outside of the rock and roll circle that you were once a rock and roll singer, it gets goofy: "Oh, that sounds exciting! Did you play bass? What band?" And you say, no, I sang, and well, there were a couple, the biggest one was Cycle Sluts from Hell, and they roll their eyes and say, "Woo! Well, that is quite a name, missy. So all righty, what was that like?" And then you have to go into this abbreviated version of a life-altering event chain and it's tedious and embarrassing.

So now that I'm a bartender again, I have moments where people will be sitting in front of me talking about bands I know personally or how they're super old school because they've been in NY since 2003, or whatever, and I'm tempted to say something to prove I'm cool. Most of the time I don't, because, well, that would be a sad and desperate way to function, and really, who cares? Is it that important to impress a stranger with my advanced age and knowledge of the East Village prior to the great real estate rape of the 21st century? They don't give a fuck, it's like getting a lecture from your parents. 

And then other times on a Saturday night people will be dancing awkwardly in front of me in those ubiquitous blue striped shirts to say, "Shout" for the nine millionth time this year, and I will think, "Wow, I am a complete alien right now. I have lived an entire lifetime of adventure that these yutzes couldn't begin to understand."

(I counted. This guy, although I think he's pretty adorable for a preppy type, was carrying 7 identical blue striped shirts.)

But then my second thought is, that's ridiculously egocentric. Maybe they have all kinds of experiences, or will have experiences, that I can't know or understand. We're all the stars of our own lives, and who is to say that what I find important or cool is really the most important and/or cool? It's all relative.

Anyway, so now that I'm back in the bars and working like an hour a week on a book and writing this blog when the mood strikes me, I have been kind of cheerfully free-falling without any real idea of what I'm Supposed To Be Doing. I knew I couldn't sit in an office managing someone else's money while people screamed at each other over my head for a minute longer, but now that the regressive year of screwing around and working as little as possible is almost up, perhaps it's time to act my age.

Or maybe I'll just coast like this for the rest of my days? It's entirely possible, although the thought terrifies my long-suffering boyfriend.

Over the last couple of weeks I've hung out a lot with with one of my besties Storm Large, because she's been in town to sing at Carnegie Hall, which was a major career milestone, then she did a solo show at Joe's Pub, and tomorrow is singing with Pink Martini for a benefit at the Central Park Zoo. It's pretty obvious that she's got it going on career-wise, and her labels are very clearly defined, she is a critically acclaimed singer/ performer/author, and can announce herself indisputably as such. We always talk about what the hell I'm doing with my life, because she believes in my talents and really wants me to move forward. She was one of the people who pushed me to quit my day job, now she's pushing me to behave like a proper writer.

We got into the whole "but who am I?" conversation and she said, "Dude, you're a writer. You just are. You have to start identifying yourself as one and get on with it." And I did my standard dance of, oh, well, it's only my little blog and I don't have a book out and may never have one and blah, blah, and then I heard myself and realized that I really need to STFU. How we choose to define ourselves is really, who we are or who we become, to the world and to ourselves. It propels in directions, or conversely, holds us back if we label ourselves incorrectly.

And then I remember that another awesome friend, Chloe Valentine, had recently referred to me as an artist. I.e., "Oh, well, you're an artist and it's a difficult path and you can't force your creativity..." I felt so happy to be referred to as an artist. I've never thought of myself as such, even though I've spent my life creating and being drawn to creative people. There was even a point when I started learning business-ey things like Excel and database management that I thought maybe I was born to organize for creative people. I guess I always thought of an artist as someone well-defined and earning a living as a painter, or a singer, or a writer who, you know, doesn't play video games and take constant photos of their cats on their days off from work.

I think many of us, especially women, impose a certain modesty upon ourselves that doesn't always serve well. We don't want to toot our own horn, to make others uncomfortable or be seen as an egomaniac or an asshole. We want to be nice. I guess the trick is to know when it's okay to state who you are, and when it's better to sit back quietly and let the blue shirts talk about a friend's band unfettered. Anyway, think about it. Who are you? Who do you want to be? Where are your true talents and do you let them shine? It's time we all got on with it. I'm planning on it as soon as I max out to level 60 in Borderlands 2.



"It is never too late to be what you might have been." --George Eliot
 

Amateur Writing in 15 Steps

1. Make Coffee.

2. Drink coffee and pore through facebook posts for one hour while ignoring boyfriend as he talks at the back of your head.

3. Say goodbye to boyfriend, reminding him to pick up the laundry while he's out. Forget to give him money for laundry.

4. Spend another hour looking at facebook and answering emails from friends you already talk to twenty times a day.

5. Time to work! Open up google docs to print out past written book chapters, to be placed in brand new pink binder purchased expressly for purpose of organization.

6. Google chat Ingrid! She's hilarious! 

7. Look for specific cat video you know Ingrid will love. Get distracted by surprised kitten video which you've already seen five hundred times. Still cute!



8. Realize another half hour has passed, back to google docs.

9. Edit a chapter, get pissed off at the shitty person this one is about. Try to remember his last name so you can see if he's on facebook. Try to find him on facebook with just his first name, no luck.

10. Hungry! Make peanut butter toast and enjoy with dregs of this morning's coffee while shoving away real time peanut butter-loving cats.

11. Tweet about procrastinating. 

12. Begin edit on another chapter, which reminds you that you need to see if the friend in this one wants to get dinner tomorrow. Send him a text and then check his facebook status to see if he's still in town.

13. Ooh! People liked that tweet. Spend a half hour on Twitter. What's Cher talking about these days?

14. Realize it's 2 pm and you're still in your underwear.

15. Blog about it.

Creativity is a C%*T

Creativity is a c%*t. I have already discussed this in other blogs, but since it's my blog and it's all I'm thinking about these days, you're stuck with this bullshit topic.

Creativity is everything. It the source of all life, it's the soul-spark, it's the be-all and end-all. But it's so nebulous and confusing and elusive and I hate the way it toys with my tiny, overheated brain. It is no wonder that Van Gogh freaked out and cut his ear off. He was probably desperate for a valid excuse to lay around and not paint.

I had an enlightening conversation with a good friend of mine who is a sculptural artist at heart and has created beautiful things in the past, but like many people, is working at a decently-paying day job that she hates and wondering how to get out of it and be happy and supported making art. I told her that I know I can write and could possibly create something that people would find interesting and might purchase, but that every part of my being rails against such productivity, and when I have time to write I instead run to any other activity, and am left at the end of most days project-less and berating myself for self-defeating behavior. Then every 9 billion days or so something pops into my head and I absolutely have to write it down and I get all excited and think I am finally on my way until the following day when it's gone and I can once again be found sprawled on the couch in my underwear watching a "Snapped" marathon.

I once asked another friend of mine, who wrote a successful first book some years ago, how her second book was coming along. She said, "The top of my refrigerator has never been cleaner." See? Creativity is a c%*t.

Getting back to the first friend mentioned here, she asked me, "What do you feel when you sit down to work on a book?"

I said, "Numb. I feel numb and my brain goes blank and I feel an overwhelming desire to lay down and read someone else's book or turn on the xbox or clean the bathroom or check facebook again."

She told me that she did a meditation in which she tried to hone in on what was stalling her out, and she said that in the middle of it she felt a frightening chasm that felt like death open up in front of her. She came to the conclusion that when she faces the obligation to have to create it feels as if she is going to die.

"I feel an absolute panic and I will run anywhere to get away from it."

Yes! I don't feel danger or panic, but I shut down, which is its own little death. She went on to offer out the theory that for centuries creativity and "difference" was punishable by death, torture, and excommunication, and perhaps some of this panic and deadness could be past life oriented. I had never considered that and it made me feel better about myself. Maybe I'm not writing because I was burned at the stake centuries ago for being too AWESOME! I like this theory. I like it very much.

She said, "You're not lazy. I'm not lazy. Think of all the things you do. You work hard jobs, you learn new skills, you pay your bills on time, you take care of your animals, you cook, you clean, you answer emails. This is not about laziness."

Why do I always overlook this and opt to beat myself up? I automatically assume that things aren't moving because I'm the worst person on the planet, and once I'm in that state of mind, everything really shuts down. It's a ridiculous cycle. I don't write, and I hate myself for not writing. I hate myself, therefore I don't write. Thousands and thousands of people aren't creating some amazing thing right now, and I don't think any less of them for living their lives without putting imaginary pressure on themselves. Why aren't we as nice to ourselves as we are to strangers?

From the time I could hold a pencil, I drew pictures. I loved to draw. I drew on anything in the vicinity. I drew cute dinosaurs with giant eyes and then dogs and horses and then in high school moved on to drawing lame posters of imaginary boyfriends for high school assignments: "Look, it's Dionysus re-imagined as a rock star!"



I was good, and when I hit community college I got talked out of a literature major into an art major by my art professors, who felt it was where I belonged. They found my punk rock mentality entertaining and supported every creative whim.

I thrived in that creative atmosphere, but I wanted out of Michigan. I decided that fashion design could utilize some of these creative urges, get me into NYC, and keep me occupied until I fulfilled my true, secret career aspiration, which was pampered rock wife. I crippled my parents financially with a nice little acceptance into Parsons, a school which prides itself on hammering students relentlessly, and I spent a grueling first semester painting square inch watercolor swatches for hours, late into the night. I hated the work, the swatches swam in front of my eyes when I tried to sleep. I was up against gay boys who had been locked away drawing dresses their whole lives. I was crap at draping and found pattern making tedious. I found the whole business soul-deadening and should have gone back to happily noodling out ligers. In the middle of the second semester my dad died and I dropped out of school, gave away my drafting table and all my art supplies, and never drew again. This comforting urge and habit that had been with me my whole life disappeared almost overnight.

Ten years ago I bought some new supplies, attempted a drawing and saw that the basic ability was still there, albeit rusty, but my desire was still firmly on vacation.

So what is that? How is it that some people are driven, can tap into it all day, and then other people have the talent but not the drive? How is it that some remarkably awful books get written and sell a million copies, a blog about absolutely nothing will write itself in my head, and yet some truly interesting stuff that has happened to me has still not made it to the keyboard? Is it that figuring out the creative process is the real soul lesson, not the actual act of creating? Is it that I am supposed to let go of the idea that I have to prove I'm special? Is it just not time?

Gaaahhh! Thinking about it makes me want to NOT think about it and maybe just blog about cats and burritos for the rest of my life:

ME: I'm fat again. We are consuming nothing but salads and vegetable juice for the rest of eternity.

DREW: What? Are you saying that Mary's March Madness Burritofest 2013 has finally come to a close? Say it isn't so!

Sigh...Yaaaasss. It continues to be time to pick up the creative thread, but this is all I've got for the time being. I'll get right on it as soon as I finish watching a few Jenna Marbles videos. This one, btw, pretty much sums up a busy Saturday night bartending in Manhattan.

N is for Neville Who Died of Ennui

Mother of God, how I hate the winter!

I have blogged about this so many times that it is pointless to do so again, but it's all I've got.

This time of year creeps up on me like a quiet plague. It infiltrates every part of my being: my sight, my hearing, my perception, the way I feel inside my body and brain. I never notice it's coming until it's in my bones and I'm crunching around the grey streets, feeling grey and alternating emotionally between a lazy rage and a sad apathy.

I feel for chronically depressed people in February. In June, I forget about them. It's all tight dresses and two hour brunches and "Girl, your hair looks FABULOUS!". But for now, the perpetually sad have my attention and empathy. I know their pain. I was a depressed teenager, not realizing that the 6 months of winter in Northern Michigan were partly to blame for a perpetually bummed out mood which manifested in embarrassing diaries full of flowery and intense longing for I knew not what, and a lifelong attachment to black clothing.

Sigh...the more things change, the more they stay the same, except that with age and experience comes the ability to recognize the symptoms of seasonal ennui. 

Over the last couple of weeks I've been drinking too much at work when it gets very late into the night. It cheers me up, if only momentarily. And I have to cool it. I haven't gotten so drunk that people notice, but I am mature enough to desire sobriety when gainfully employed. But instead of reminding myself that I am vulnerable right now and simply have to choose to take a break for the time being, I take it to the emotional and mental extreme. I text apologies to people who have no idea what I'm talking about. I wonder if I'm an alcoholic. I wallow in self-loathing, vague and undefinable guilt and shame lapping at my ankles. I wonder if I should go back to therapy. I wonder if my boyfriend has stopped loving me. Yaaaaayyy...it's February!

Today I had intended to go to a yoga class, but then it seemed well out of the range of possibility energy-wise. I did get out to run some errands, and that was just as expected. I stood in an empty aisle reading a label in the drug store, and Patty NYU comes and stands directly behind me as close as possible, wanting to look at the same item. The internal monologue starts up immediately. Why can't she get her other stuff first? Does she have to hover around me like an ill wind? I turn around and give her the look. She ignores me. She just wants what she wants, and I am in her way. I want to kill her. Now we are mortal enemies. There can be only one! In the cash register line I assess her hair. It looks dull and lifeless. Her hair is stupid. I hate her jacket. How dare she stand so close to me in an empty store. She must die. She doesn't have a Duane Reade club card. She probably doesn't need one because Daddy pays the credit card bill. I create a whole backstory to justify my rage. Then I realize I actually like her hair, and remember, oh yeah. It's FEBRUARY.

In the grocery store I get stuck behind an old lady traffic jam. The grocery stores in Manhattan are excruciating: a too-small labyrinth of boxes and bodies. Human movement is impossible without constant struggle, and the elderly love to gum the already gummy works with the largest carts possible. They don't care, they're retired, it's time to hang. So we all stop and wait. I am too depressed to try to get around them, so I just stare at the onions with resentment. I am hot, so hot. Because in February you dress for the outdoors and then as soon as you get inside to shop you boil in your coat and scarf and hat. 

Eventually the tiny, stooped woman at the front of the fray takes a shuffle step. We're moving now! I sigh audibly and yank at my itchy scarf. They all must die.

At the register line, I choose self-service so I can bag in my eco-friendly cloth bag at my leisure. The machine immediately freaks out at the presence of a non-plastic bag and shouts repeatedly at me: "PLEASE REMOVE THE UNSCANNED ITEM FROM THE BAG." The girl manning the self-service is wearing the most amazing wig I have ever seen, it sits high on her head with black and white streaks pouring out of the back like a fountain. This cheers me some when she clears my machine, until PLEASE REMOVE THE UNSCANNED ITEM FROM THE BAG starts up again. Fuck you, stupid machine. I will kill you too. The only good thing on this entire planet right now is that goddamn wig.

One of the little old ladies freaks out. She starts shouting at her cashier: "I ONLY ASKED YOU WHERE TO PUT THE BASKET!! WHAT IS YOUR PROBLEM? YOU ROLL YOUR EYES AT ME? YOU'RE JUST A CASHIER YOU KNOW! IT ISN'T ROCKET SCIENCE. YOU'RE NOT A DOCTOR."

She is maaaaad. M.A.D. She continues to shout and the cashier walks away to avoid an argument. I finish up my annoying self-service and now I have to get around the shouting lady to exit the store. She moves forward to let me out, and I look down at her. She has lipstick on and I see she's put some effort into her appearance. The scarf on her head is silk. She's cute. She looks up at me and says, "I ONLY ASKED HER WHERE TO PUT THE BASKET AND SHE ROLLS HER EYES. CAN YOU BELIEVE IT? SO RUDE. SO UNBELIEVABLY RUDE. THIS STORE IS GOING DOWN, IT IS TERRIBLE HERE!"

I have been there. I have. Something sets you off and you can't stop and everyone else stares at you like you have three heads, which then makes you madder and more vocal about defending your position until you're causing a major scene in public, which then ends, in my case, in tears at home and the occasional scathing Yelp review. So whenever it's not me causing the scene, I feel a sense of relief.  

See, I am not crazy.

I put my hand on her arm and said, "Don't let it ruin your day; she just doesn't like her job." 

Her tension lessened visibly and she reciprocated the arm touch. She replied, 'SHE DOES HATE HER JOB! SHE'S MISERABLE!" The tone of the shout was calmer and it made me happy to be able to help her feel a little better. I felt badly for the cashier. It's a tedious job and I imagine sometimes you have to roll your eyes at the old ladies or go insane, and no one wants to be screamed at for such a minor offense. But I liked that I was able to assuage the upset a small bit for this cute little woman, who had put on lipstick to go to the grocery store and merely wanted to be treated nicely when she put away her basket. It was a small moment of human connection that eased my own suffering. 

So yeah. Wintertime sucks. But I'm hanging in there. Hope you are too.

Bartending 2.0

It is so weird to be bartending again.

It's not the kind of gig you dream about as a child, most people just sort of end up in it as a means to an end. In my case, I stood jobless many years ago in the middle of Danceteria, in a bondage cap and goth drag, surveying this brave new world, and said to Michael Schmidt, "Maybe I could bartend..."  Rudolf, the owner, happened to be passing by, and Michael touched his arm and said, "Rudolf, she wants to bartend." Rudolf replied, "You're hired, come see me tomorrow afternoon."

It's funny how every person's destiny hangs on one random moment or another. At the time, I thought getting a job was the easiest thing in the world because I'd had a similar experience at a Betsey Johnson a few months earlier. I didn't realize until later that my youth, looks and willingness to dress as outrageously as possible were opening doors for me. I was shocked and hurt when I started at Danceteria and the barbacks and many of the female bartenders expressed open hostility toward my presence, quickly exacerbated by the fact that I hadn't a clue how to pour a drink. Karen Finley, a performance artist superstar and a very kind woman, taught me how to pour a count during my trial by fire on a busy Friday night, graciously and with a minimum of eye-rolling. Rudolf paid for bartending school, and I cultivated some non-hateful work relationships, and it quickly became amazing.

I met rock stars, formed bands, picked up new boyfriends, learned how to do drugs, learned how to spot drug addicts, wore my underwear as outerwear, wore a ponytail on a belt fashioned to look like a horsetail for a good six months. I slept all day and got up at dinnertime, usually opening my eyes to whomever I'd partied with the prior night and morning: sometimes punk rock Jill, her giant mohawk leaning sideways, cigarette already in her mouth, sometimes a new guy. After a childhood in Michigan feeling like an alien, I loved having my fellow aliens around. I'd chainsmoke, send Jill out for coffee, tease my hair, put on a ton of makeup, belts, belts, earrings, earrings, scarves, jackets, leggings, hats, and roll on out to do it again, night after night. I had so much cash around my apartment that I would forget where I'd put it and find $300 under my jewelry box two months later.

And then eventually, as time went on, record deals procured and lost, rock stardom almost reached and then dashed upon the rocks of grunge and foolishness, romance turning out to be something excruciating and horrible that I clearly couldn't navigate properly, drugs serving to create suicidal tendencies, bartending morphed from a party in a job to something I had to do because I didn't know what else I could do. I began to hate it. I hated being around so many people. I hated people waving their hands in my face and shouting my name. I hated talking to lonely drunks. I hated people in general, especially wasted ones. Every minute behind the bar was a punishment and it showed in my face and demeanor. I became THAT bartender.

And so it was time to stop, or die, or kill someone, and learn a new trade. Which happened, and I excelled and enjoyed it for a time and I thought I'd never return to the bar. Yet here I am. Never say never. And strangely, it's not bad. At moments it's awesome in a completely different way.

Saturday night on Avenue B is quite a different scene from the last time around. The crowd is primarily all the people "we" have complained about for years, who now completely dominate our once-fringe neighborhood, which was a tight knit community of musicians, artists, drag queens, freaks, and faggots, who had invaded the primarily hispanic ghetto that came before us. My people. My adopted homeland. Our tribe is gone now: died of old age, mohawks grown out and cut into sensible bobs and moved to suburbia to raise children, moved to other cities more amenable to the artistic temperament and financial state. But because Avenue B is a little off the main drags of Avenue A and further west, it's not too horrendously collegiate just yet. And I work in an elegant little bar that attracts, for the most part, intelligent, educated young adults from good families who know how to behave in public. Most of them are either in college or recently graduated and working in one prestigious profession or another.

Let's call a thing a thing. Yuppies. I'm waiting on a lot of yuppies. People I used to sneer at if they dared to walk my block, which they rarely did because it was dangerous and held nothing of interest for them. But that was long ago. They won the war; my people defeated. But I am not a sore loser (after loudly going through the seven stages of grief). I have come to terms with my loss and am willing to meet them on the battleground with shield lowered and hand outstretched, especially if said hand receives a cash tip.

So there I am, a curious relic from another time, covered in tattoos and rock and roll gear, manning a small island bar by myself in a side room off the main bar. I provide a little bit of East Village flavor for their evening's entertainment. I am older than they are, I am of another world, I Am Legend.

 

Okay, maybe that's a bit dramatic. And it's slightly turned around because I'm the one wearing too much makeup. But this is how it feels more often than not.

Because of the size of the room, I work a lot of birthday parties or groups of people who want to escape the larger and more crowded main bar. So I sort of get the cream of the new New York crop. They're hip enough to land on Avenue B and adult enough to want to hang in a side room. They don't scream for Pickle Backs, but they think an Old Fashioned with an expensive bourbon is a really cool drink and they do a lot of shots of Jamison.

I feel sad for them in some ways, they are too young and their pop culture too vapid to know the exquisitely painful rock and roll heart burst that came with, say, hearing the end breakdown and buildup of "Sick as a Dog" the first time you put Rocks on the turntable. So much promise of an ecstatic life imminent in the music of my youth. They'll never bounce up and down in a sweaty, joyfully mind-blown crowd in front of The Cramps. It's just oldies radio to them. Most of them don't really care about music, and what they do enjoy sonically seems flat to me. Where is the sex? The danger? The passion? The beauty? Why don't you ache for anything?? But maybe they do, and I can't see it. I have not enjoyed the pleasure of living in a luxury apartment, and I am not so selfish to think that just because the things that move me aren't interesting to them, doesn't mean that they don't have things that move them equally as deeply. We all carry beating hearts within our individual chests.

So lately I've been making connections with people that I once viewed as the enemy. These are fleeting connections, to be sure, we're not making plans to hang out after work, but they are connections nonetheless, and I'm finding that I enjoy it. And interestingly, I'm finding that many of them yearn for my good opinion. They have no idea that I had and have a life outside of pouring drinks, but the smarter ones know what "we" think of them. They know they're not that hip, but they really want to stand next to hip and feel comfortable. They ask me questions about my life. They ask me where I got my dress. They give me stock tips. They want the tattooed and scarred alien to be nice to them, which I am, and they respond, for the most part, in kind.

This week I had a guy who told me that he had been robbed of his iphone at knifepoint on his way to the bar. It was easy to see how it happened. He looked very normal, had a beautiful navy wool coat on, a good haircut, clearly a well-kept guy and one who is not going to fight back if you pull a knife on him. Although who knew that people had knives pulled on them anymore on a Saturday night in the East Village? I bought him his first drink as consolation, and he tipped mightily on all subsequent purchases and high fived me for hours. His friend kept repeating, "If you had full sleeves I'd marry you." (Meaning if I were tattooed to my wrists instead of elbows). Finally I laughed and said, "How is that a  reward for getting more tattoos? Am I supposed to be tempted by this random offer?" That drew more high fives from his friends. Now we were hanging.

Another guy said, "You're the first bartender in this neighborhood who has been nice to me!" And his girlfriend answered, "Yes! Everyone has been so bitchy, we're going to stay here with you!" That made me smile. I never cared about people like this the first time around because I was too busy making sure Joey Ramone had a beer or that the biker at the end of the bar wasn't going to beat the crap out of my latest, half-a-fag potential boyfriend. Anyone outside of my circle was invisible. Now everyone is visible. I like being liked, I want people to have a good time. I like paying attention to signs, I have more compassion and am more able to let the little things go. I'm not looking for something or someone new, there's no agenda, just a desire to earn a living with a minimum of angst. When I have the time and inclination I dance behind the bar along with them to the dumbest songs. They think "Shout" by the Isley Brothers is the pinnacle of dance heaven because they remember it from Animal House. I'll make bullshit girlie drinks for the 22 year old girls, who leave a dollar tip like they're doing me a huge favor. I'll pour water for the shitheads who know they should tip for it but don't. I don't care. It evens out in the end, the good outweighs, or outtips, the bad. It's all good, I guess, until it feels bad again.

It's edifying to view these people as people for the first time, when throughout my life they have just been the nameless army of "straights" hell-bent upon destroying my world. My beloved past is gone, but the present is here and there is still fun to be had. I'd rather dance to a tired old 50's song in a roomful of mostly strangers than not dance at all. 

So uh, yeah. Tip your bartender. Don't ask for a mojito when the bar is slammed and there's nary a mint leaf in sight. And if they're really crabby, don't take it personally. We're all in our own bubble.

Photo by Felix Rodrigues

Happy New Year 2013!

2013! How did it get here so fast? I remember being a little kid and talking about how old we'd be in the year 2000, when people would be using flying cars and robot maids. It seemed a million miles away.

I haven't had much burning in my brain to talk about, but it seems like it's time to get a new year's blog out, so I'll just wing it and see where we land. First, PUBLIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT for all my ladies and my gays:

My gorgeous and only slightly batty friend Codie Leone has a friend who is a top notch aesthetician, who recommended that she get a nuface machine, which is a little handheld device which zaps the facial muscles into shape. Sort of like this for the modern age:



But it looks like this:

I noticed Codie looked very refreshed, so I forced Drew to order one for me for Christmas, even though he'd already blasted out his credit card on some other items I just had to have. He's a very good boyfriend and luckily for me he finds this kind of nonsense entertaining. Over the years he's purchased a laser hair remover, a sonicare face cleanser, a sonicare eye serum thingy, and a series of well-marketed and overpriced creams and potions, all with a minimum of grousing.

I'm gonna post a video of him rocking out to show my nuface gratitude. He's the drummer:



So, I have been zapping myself since Christmas day, and have noticed a difference. Zoe got one and she sees it too. I recommend that everyone...ahem...of a certain age...go out and get one immediately. Don't say I never did anything for you: http://mynuface.com/

In my mind, this whole 2012 cosmic shift hooplah has been a bit of a bust. I am regularly immersed in readings and channelings through my loved ones, and was hoping for something more dramatic. Alien visitations, not having to use currency anymore, people suddenly being less selfish and obnoxious, or at the very least having the ability to see auras or losing the red states to secession. Alas, I am still in my tiny apartment, watching my beloved neighborhood get eaten alive by NYU students, and arguing with near-strangers about politics on facebook. One website promised big heads to hold all of our new-found knowledge and energy, I still have a pea-sized head. Although this one is not such a disappointment really.

But things are good. In 2012 I lost a little weight and got free of some major energy vampires. I quit my day job and free fell into a new, scary but fun place. None of my animals need vet care at the moment. I am happy. I like my life, I am healthy and surrounded by people who love me and are good for me. This is because I have been fortunate and because I learned how to make better choices for myself. Once, I wasn't any of those things. And it has occurred to me, as I run a little machine over my face like Norma Desmond, that middle age isn't nearly as bad as our youth-obsessed culture portends.




A former bandmate posted these photos on facebook this week, that's me in panties and a bra and not much else, looking like a low-rent Cher from behind:

Hammerjacks (best rock club ever), Baltimore, 1989. The photo surprised me for a minute. Holy cow! There I am, in my underwear, in front of a sea of people who paid good money to be watch me "sing". I lived this on a daily basis for a while, but in some ways it feels like another lifetime. I remember that it was exciting, and fun and adrenaline-charged. But I couldn't fully feel it. I hated myself, and when I got offstage at many of these shows I had a a guy waiting for me who would do nothing but a lot of drugs, tell me that I sucked, hit me up for cash, make rendesvous plans with the waitresses behind my back, and abuse any male fans who came near me. I don't blame him; he hated himself too. I forgive him for being a crappy boyfriend and forgive myself for choosing such a crappy boyfriend. I did the best I could with what I knew at the time, and still had a blast through much of it and consider myself so lucky for the experiences. I'm just saying that sometimes what we THINK should be the pinnacle of success and happiness really might be outer programming which has nothing to do with the truth of what our soul seeks.

I saw a fascinating interview with Caroline Myss recently, and she said much of the pain that people experience in life comes from coveting a path that isn't our own. Meaning that we can't all be mega-rich pop stars with Bentleys and public adoration, no matter how many affirmations we say. I have never coveted that path, although I did walk a parallel line next to it. My main goal as a teenager was to look cool, to get near rock and roll, and to get backstage easily.  I just overshot it a little, and gained a great education in the process. Anyway, what she has to say about how to find our path is brilliant: http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2012/09/29/super-soul-sunday-caroline-myss_n_1922777.html.

We're always on the right path, even if we take some side streets into suffering. My mother says that it's all tools for the cosmic toolbox, and once you learn a lesson, you don't have to take that class again. Although I would add that in my experience you usually move on to advanced courses in which the same lesson shows up looking a little classier. like same douchey boyfriend behavior but this time he has enough money to buy new boots instead of repairing the old ones with duct tape. Or is that just me?

Once in a while I'll get an email on facebook from someone asking life advice. I love to give it, although I have no illusion about my genius and most of the time just throw my own examples against someone else's wall until something sticks. I know that people can hear information over and over again, but until they feel fully what they're in body to experience, and learn it in their being rather than their brain, the information-giving is only marginally helpful. But I'm glad to be there for moral support.

So yeah, 2013. Maybe there is a shift going on and I'm simply being petulant because I don't have a giant head full of cosmic knowledge and I'm still worried about rent money from time to time. My shift has been occurring over a lifetime, and as this new year enters I think about everyone out there who is hurting, animals and people, and pray that their shift is happening too. I feel like sometimes I dance around in my own newly cheery world and forget what it's like to be out there, sometimes through no fault of one's own. I wish you all a release from all that wounded you in 2012, and a happy new beginning full of love and light.

Zoe and me, New Years Day, St. Mark's Church:

Namaste, bitches.