Friday, March 23, 2007

You've Got Mail!

Soooo…I know my blogs have been a little heavy lately.
 
I seem to lack a certain privacy filter that most people have. I tend to put out whatever stream of consciousness is running through my head both verbally, and in writing. I find it impossible to hide my emotions and thoughts most of the time, and this can be interesting to some people but disconcerting to others.


Also, I realize that I am an incredibly lucky girl, and have had the opportunity to live a life that is interesting and enviable to some. Because of the gifts that I have been given I feel a certain responsibility to tell as much of my truth as I can to those who want to hear it. I guess it's my way of returning the favor to the Universe. I know that what I write has meaning for some people and I really like that. I'm very grateful for the connection it brings and I want everyone who comments to know that I value those comments very highly, even if I can't always keep up with responding in turn.


As for that last blog re being a Mean Girl, I almost didn't post it because it was about me working shit out in my head more than having something definite to say. I want to make clear that I am not taking a position that being angry or difficult is a great thing to be. I am simply trying to navigate my way through my own life and maybe doing some clearing of old energies.


Okay, so there is another, much less soul-searching aspect of myspace that I would like to share with you periodically, and that is the absolutely retarded mail that comes through here on a regular basis. Unfortunately I haven't saved a lot of it, but I'm going to start. Here are a few of the latest:


From some random tranny chaser named Marc who lives in Phoenix. Every photo in his friend list is someone like Alannah Starr. I can't figure out if he thinks I'm one and this is his way of hitting on me? I don't mind being mistaken at all, I love my transsexual friends and many of them are hotter than most biological females. But I suppose I'll never know because I'll never respond to this:


Subject: Would you please look at my pics page?

Body: One of the last pics is of what appears to be a dog, which I adopted from the pound a few months ago. I am suspicious that she may actually be a rat, impersonating a dog. Could you please give me your opinion? Have I been fooled (again?)
Yeah, I'll get right on that...


This is from a Cycle Slut fan from Italy:


HI R,
H A U ?
GREAT YA PAGE W FANTASTIC PHOTO N GOOD PROFILE!!!
WHEN IS AVAIBLE NEW RECOR FRO CSFH?????
I VE 2 REQUEST FOR YA!!!!
I SEARCH CSFH SIGNED PHOTO FOR MY COLLECTION
AND 1 Y NYLON STOCKING( EHI ..IM A NOT A FUKKING MANIAC) FOR GOTHIC/FETISH DECORATION ON MY GUITAR STRAP.
I VE 1 FROM TERESA(ZEITEGZERO) BUT IS VERY OLD !!!
I WAIT YA NEWS!!!

BEST REGARD
P. --------------------------------------------------


Ehi. He is not a fukking maniac. I like his enthusiasm but he is sorely mistaken if he thinks I've got the time or energy to mail personal items to strangers. NEXT!


This guy is my absolute favorite. I'm putting up a link to his page because he always sends me the kookiest and best spanglishey messages and I think everyone should add him so that they can receive their own. If I ever get to Hermosillo I am so looking him up for my 30 beers:


From: Alan
Subject: baby queen


Body: that as these beautiful lady a greeting and a strong sonorous hug from hermosillo and invitame 30 beers


Yay Alan!!


I am including this next guy's profile because he's douche and deserves to be exposed as such. Please don't harass him or send him any mail.


Quite a while back I mentioned getting a really obnoxious email from a guy who has had somewhat of a music career. It's here. I didn't post his profile because I don't want to cause schism in our little myspace world and after that first round that I describe in the blog I've never responded to him. But I got this from him recently and out of the blue, and it's so arrogant and annoying I must share:


From: Taylor
Subject: u lost
Body: i won
I only hope that the females who respond to his brand of bullshit don't plan on reproducing...


And from over on the CSFH page...

A guy named Rick who has this under his General Interests:



drinking beer,smoking,massive amounts of nugs,music,art,TEXAS MUSIC

writes this simple, yet heartfelt missive:


Subject: no subject
Body: i need a woman to nurture my pig

Query: what is a nug?



From a very gothey Italian in lipstick whose profile I can't post because his band is working with a friend of mine:


Subject: ma che gnocche
Body: hey beautiful girl s.....fuck me!.beautiful sexy..girl s


Did he just call us his potato/pasta dumplings? And what's up with the Italians?



And this guy, named Anthony, who sends us these kinds of messages with regularity.


Just in case any of you lovely ladies or sluts should ever happen to want me to be your slut (any or all of you of course) my cell number is 407-XXX-XXXX or if you have Nextel or Boostmobile my walkie talkie number is XXX*XXX*XXXXX would love to be the love (or just oral) slave of you all.
Um...eeeuww!


This cracker, who's headline reads "the south was right" and has got all kinds of racist crap on his page, left us this comment:


"HEY SLUTS!!!......HEHE! I JUST GOT THE COMMENT YOU SENT ME,AND LET ME TELL YA,YOU SLUTS HAVE MORE CLASS THAN ANY OF THE SO-CALLED, "LADIES" I KNOW OF.YOU KNOW THE AMAING THING?.ITS THE FACT THAT YOU GALS ARE FORM THE NORTH.AND ALTHOUGH IM FROM THE SOUTH,YOU DIDNT LOOK DOWN ON ME BECAUSE OF THE AREA OF WHICH I WAS BORN AND RAISED.YOU DIDNT LOOK DOWN ON THE FACT THAT IM COUNTRY......AND A LIL HEAVY METAL,TOO.YOU DIDNT LOOK DOWN ON ME FOR "MY" CHOICE OF FLAGS.RIGHT OR WRONG,YOU RESPECT A PERSONS TRUE "INDIVIDUALITY",AND THE RIGHT DO DO AS THEY WISH,FREE FROM BIAS AND PRDJUDICE.WITHOUT KNOWING ANY OF YOU PERSONALLY,I CAN TELL YOU ARE THE KIND OF REAL WOMEN THAT I WOULD HANG WITH,DRINK WITH,PARTY WITHAND DO LAUNDRY FOR.IVE GOT A COUPLE GUYS I KNOW IN A BAND(A LOCAL ONE),AND ONE OF THEM ACTUALLY CONSIDERS HIMSELF A FRIEND OF MINE.I TELL YOU THIS RIGHT NOW.....I HAD RATHER PAY TO GO TO NEW YORK CITY AND BUY A TICKET TO SEE YALL,THEN TO DRIVE LOCALLY AND SEE ONE FOR FREE(OR NEAR FREE)....FOR I WILL SURELY NEVER PAY $10.00 TO EVER SEE THAT BAND PLAY AGIAN. YOU UNDERSTAND HOW A FAN BASE SHOULD BE TREATED...MOST BANDS LACK THIS FORESIGHT.I AM GLAD TO SEE THAT YOU DO NOT.MUCH LOVE FROMN THE SOUTH.AND IF I CAN NEVER CATCH A SHOW OF YALLS NEAR ME,I MAY JUST HAVE TO HAKE THAT DRIVE UP NORTH.BUT IF I DO,WE GOTTA HANG OUT SOME.LOVE AND BEST WISHES......MIKE."

Scared!!!


And lastly, this dude, his email is pretty standard but combined with this profile pic, it's pretty special:


where are you all jamming i want to c you all live and if ya want check out my band raccooncity, we are still looking for menbers no. i am not trying to steal ya ll but i would like to double bill with ya and get shit faced with ya later j ;Dark


Yes, it's all quality for the ladies of CSFH. I suppose the good news is that we'll never be lonely, and if I suddenly turn up missing this blog will give you some clues as to where to find the body.


Yippee!!

Saturday, March 10, 2007

It's So Rock!

Text messages at 11 pm:

Me: Better have bail money ready, I'm goin' in.
Dennis: I've had bail money at the foot of my bed since I met you.



I have set my life up in my own comfort zone and I'm totally uninterested in stepping out of it. 

I hang out in shitty rock and roll bars with my angry rock and roll friends and I like it that way. I get the appreciation I crave from the rock boys and I can relate and have fun with the rock girls. We all have plenty to talk about and we agree on what music should be played. I like knowing who the bartenders are and getting drink tickets and VIP passes when my friends' bands come to town. I like my little rock and roll world. I feel safe in it. If I need a vacation from that I just hang out with my favorite gays and they make me feel equally safe and loved while standing at the bar or eating brunch and talking about my need for shoes or their latest filthy sexual encounters. For the most part it's a very contented little East Village life that I lead. 

But of course life is not always about being safe and I am currently being thrust into a discomfort zone that is teaching me all kinds of new crap about my own deep-seated insecurities that I don't care to learn: My boyfriend Drew is busting his ass playing drums with a couple of different and worthy outfits, and one of them is getting a lot of attention and drawing a very upwardly mobile scene. Things are moving along at a fairly good clip, which means that I have suddenly found myself spending time in rooms jammed up to the gills with models, movie stars, photographers, and hipster guys in ironic hats. It's frigging killing me.

It has become painfully obvious that I am a deeply insecure person and get panicky outside of my own environment. When pulled out of the rock and roll element I get prickly and defensive and paranoid. I stand with my arms folded and say bitchy things to random strangers. I sneer at the men and watch the women around me with an eagle's glare, scanning for any infringement upon my territory or person. I overreact to tiny infractions and I scowl a lot. Suffice to say that when I am not feeling comfortable I am a big, fat, high-maintenance pain-in-the-ass girlfriend, not much fun when someone is just trying to play a good gig and deal with the socializing that goes along with that.

Most of my life I've had good reason to torture the men I've been with. They deserved it. But I don't now. Drew is very much in love with me and when we are out he is hyper-conscious of making sure that I feel safe, that I have a drink, that I'm not left standing alone, and that I know where he is in the room at any given time. He's a complete gentleman and a total fucking champion. And yet the first time he had a gig with this band I could feel myself veering on the edge of insanity a number of times, and when I head into crazy territory he's the one that suffers. He pays for things like me having to shove my way to the sink through a gaggle of tiny, pretty, young heads on sticks discussing how addictive getting tattooed is:

Model #1: "I have 2 now and I might get a 3rd! I just can't stop!"
Model #2: "Yeah, I'm going to get a yin/yang symbol on the back of my neck next."
Model #3: "You guys are sooo crazy!"
Crabby, overly tattooed crone (that'd be me) trying to get to the soap: "Excuse me…excuse me...excuse me!"

 

Blargh.


Then right after the bathroom encounter a horrid little asian girl came speeding out of nowhere and began hopping up and down on Drew like an amped up puppy. I stopped short in mid-sentence in a rage and he squirmed out of her grip with a panicked look on his face, knowing full well that in my current tweaked and semi-drunken state something bad could very well ensue. 

As he grabbed me and we moved on I took a moment to turn back, lean down close to her, look her in the eye, and put my forefinger up into her surprised little doll face. I'm pretty sure my message was clear but when we got back to the dressing room she was off and humping him again. I realized at that moment that I was only torturing myself by trying to control the moves of an obvious dipshit with no sense of self-preservation. So I sat down with our friends and let her leap around unfettered until Drew was able to extricate himself and she toddled off, I imagine to find some guy with an ironic hat to blow in the bathroom.

Fast forward to a gig on Thursday night and I knew it would be even more of the same. In fact, truth be told, there is a decent chance that things may continue to expand exponentially far and beyond the reach of my angry forefinger. And I want this for my boyfriend. He works his ass off, he's a brilliant, well-respected musician, and he deserves to have people into him and to be able to make a living doing what he wants to do. But there is nothing that makes me crabbier than spending time in a roomful of horny models and socialites, or even worse, leaving my boyfriend alone in a roomful of horny models and socialites. Ay, there's the rub.

I had a little talk with myself before we left the house. My mantra for the night was, "Everything is okay, let the models grope your boyfriend. Everything is okay, let the models grope your boyfriend." Meaning: my guy is awesome, deserves my trust, and behaving like an angry control freak is just going to make his night suck and make me feel shitty about myself. And I know that my nuttiness in those situations doesn't really have to do with not trusting him. It has to do with my own childhood bullshit and insecurities about myself.

So we went and so they came—the famous waifs that pretentious security will always shove you out of the way to make room for (Gosh, sorry, sir, should the ordinary people refrain from eye contact, too?), the hipster boys, the tiny heads on sticks and the baby hookers in 80's garb, fresh out of the box and primed for action. At times they all make me feel like a bulky, ancient bird of prey (Ca-caw! Ca-caw!!). 

But I sat back with cocktail in hand and let Drew do what he had to do while working on paying attention to what was going on inside me instead of just reacting unconsciously to what I couldn't control. This was not always easy once the party reached its peak and they put up a stripper pole on the stage so the girls could really get rolling (HAWT!!). The DJ slaughtered great songs and bad ones by mashing things up: two seconds of Baba O'Reilly crashing into 30 seconds of Eye of the Tiger slamming into Mr. Roboto. He would play just enough of a great song to lull me into a moment of happiness and then tear it off unmercifully to be replaced by two seconds of something crap from the 80's. Are people in clubs now so ADD that they can't hear a full song? Why would anyone need to hear even two seconds of Eye of the Tiger, especially when Baba O'Reilly is starting up? I could feel a vein throbbing near my temple.

First girl on pole, swinging her hair into my face as I try to pass: "Oh my God, I love this song!"
Second girl on pole: "I know, it's so ROCK."


Sigh…


So what I'm figuring out is this: The world has indeed been taken over by those jocky popular kids we hated in high school. For the most part they're rich, stupid, young, pretty, over privileged and unfortunately they own New York now and there's nothing the rest of us can do about it. They're the people that I came to this city to avoid and when I'm forced out there among them again I revert back to my sullen, resentful childhood self. I hate them before they can hate me and I flail around angrily trying to gain back the illusion of control that I have when I am with my people in my dark rock dens of safety. 

Also, I am no longer their age and when I'm in a roomful of incredibly beautiful twenty-something women, a portion of whom would like to fuck my boyfriend (who is closer to their age than I am), I get a little testy. But the truth is that I don't want to be twenty again. Christ, it was painful enough the first time around. And although I wouldn't mind having their perfectly flat stomachs and delicate bird arms, I would never trade who I am for who they are. I like my life and I like being an angry rock chick with big boobs and scars and too much makeup on. So I'm going to continue to repeat my mantra, suck it up and support my boyfriend, and be glad that Dennis is good for bail money. 


Wish me luck, people.


Saturday, March 3, 2007

The YMCA and Gifts We Can't Keep


So I'm in therapy…again, after nearly a decade of being out. Yes, people, it turns out that I am not as sane as those of you who only know me from a distance would like to believe. Ha! I decided it was time to go in for a tune-up and my former and now current therapist returned my call very quickly, sounding pleased to hear from me again. He set up an appointment for the very next day. Hmm…it's like he was expecting my return or somethin'...

And of course we've been talking a lot about my dad and my childhood…again, which reminded me that I wrote this down a while ago.
*************************************************

Once I finished high school I decided, with enthusiastic encouragement on the part of friends and family, to go into fashion design. I secretly believed that my real career would eventually be pampered rock wife, but in the meantime fashion seemed a natural progression for a person who was always drawing and constantly overdressing. I chose Parsons School of Design because it was in New York, and because I liked the brochure better than the one from the Fashion Institute of Technology. I thought Parsons looked classier. It should have, the bloated tuition nearly broke my parents. But I didn't have any concept of things like that, I just wanted to get the hell out of Michigan and into New York City.

In the Fall of 1983 my father and I packed all my New York worthy belongings into his big black Chrysler 80's dad-mobile, one of those long luxury gas-hog cars they used to make with velour seating and an overabundance of space. This one just happened to be vampire colored—black with a burgundy interior— perfect for my arrival into the city. I had so much crap—hatboxes filled with hats I never wore, vintage shoes of every shape and color, three or four fur coats, milk crates jammed with vinyl, photographs, drawings, drafting table, art supplies—you name it, I took it, convinced that I would need it all. It packed out the trunk of the car and a small U-Haul trailer attached to the back.

My father warned me that the description of the room I was to stay in did not bode well for the containment of so much stuff. The Parsons dorms were filled to capacity so the school rented out a floor of a dilapidated YMCA on 34th Street and 9th Avenue. The lucky students relegated to this charming locale were given an 8' x 12' room (small bed and wardrobe provided) to sleep in and another room of the same size to share with another student as a workspace. But I was a child of the Midwestern upper middle class and I had no concept of the space constraints that came along with living in a crowded city, or of exactly how small an 8' x 12' room really is.

Once the car and trailer were packed to capacity we set out for a 15 hour drive—my father, myself, and a young man not much older than me who worked for my father. I can't remember his name now but I do remember that he was a typical Michigan boy—na├»ve, outgoing, and incessantly cheerful. He and my father sat in the front seat and talked man talk about their work in the oil business while I sat in the back grinning that I was finally getting out of Dodge and on the verge of starting the fabulous and famous new life I knew I was meant to have. Everything that had happened up until then was just filler as far as I was concerned.

After a day of driving, a night in a motel, another day of driving, and an hour in the hellacious traffic that surrounds the city, we made it to 34th Street and 9th Avenue late in the afternoon. My father and I left the boy to watch the car and stepped into the lobby of my new home, which turned out to be the interior of what was essentially a seedy flophouse, a phenomenon which I had never seen before. Where I came from everything was kept clean and neat, all pastels and freshly scrubbed faces. In this building everything looked old and covered in a layer of grime and the people walking back and forth did not look fresh-scrubbed or happy to be there. Still, it was NYC to me and I was excited, and I could sense that my father had hope that the student floor would be better.

We signed in with a remarkably surly staff and received the key to my room—a novelty as I'd never had a key to somewhere to live before because our house was always unlocked. We waited for an eternity for the elevator, which then creaked up slowly and stopped on every floor before depositing us on a floor where student types were moving around—some carrying boxes and bags with purpose, others standing in the hall holding towels and toothbrushes and talking to one another as if they'd lived there forever. It wasn't exactly the cheerful mayhem you see in teen movies about college dorms, but at least everyone looked clean and young and hopeful about life, not like the depressed down-and-outs on their last legs downstairs.

I could feel my father's relief as we walked down the ratty carpet looking for my room, which was situated right across from the shared bathroom (flip flops a must!). I turned the key and opened the door wide and we stood side by side in the doorway in speechless awe at my new room. It was tinier than I ever imagined possible; it could barely fit the bed and the small wardrobe, which clearly wasn't going to fit all the clothing I had packed. The bed was really just a cot and the mattress was stained and dubious-looking. The walls were institutional blue and grimy. Directly across from the door was a grease-covered window, with equally greasy Venetian blinds (two broken slats), facing another dirty and anonymous building. The floor was covered in dingy beige tile. A single cockroach trudged lazily across the width of the room towards the underside of the bed.

Up until that moment I had not known that I was a child of privilege, not of great wealth, but simple upper middle class privilege. I came from a place where people owned their own large houses containing large bedrooms in which to store as many items as one might choose to own. My mother's floors and walls were always very clean, the beds warm and inviting with crisp cotton sheets, and there was no such thing as a dirty window with broken blinds. There are no cockroaches there and no one I knew ever lived alone in a tiny, shitty room like this one.

I was very tired from the drive and facing the job of packing all my stuff into this hideous, tiny space. And now I was really scared, but I didn't want my father to worry. I held back tears and my eyes burned, and without turning to look at him I said with false cheer, "Well...this is what I wanted!"

He put his arm around my shoulder and said quietly, "It looks like you got it then, Mare." My father was a strong Italian man who had never refused a request from his daughter and he wasn't going to do it now, although I knew this was a particularly difficult wish to fulfill.

Back downstairs I leaned against the car, guarding it while the two men used a dolly to lug the records and excess clothing and books and crap that I obviously wasn't going to need. It took a few trips but fairly quickly the car and U-haul were empty and it was dark outside and time for them to start on the long journey back. We stood on the sidewalk and my dad hugged me tightly and said, "It'll be okay, kiddo." I knew he was reassuring himself as much as me. He got in the car and waved out the window and I stood on the sidewalk of 34th Street, feeling very small and very alone as I watched the car pull away.

It was the last time I would ever see my dad.

By the Spring of 1984 I was far more interested in going out than going to school. On one particular night Michael Schmidt dropped me off at 3 am from a night at the Pyramid and as soon as I got in my room there was a knock on my door. There was a call on the house phone. I padded down the hall to the big pay phone still wearing my evening finery (stone sober, I didn't drink then) and picked up the dangling receiver. I heard my mother crying and she said,

"Dad's gone." This was completely confusing to me and I asked,

"Well, where did he go?"

My father had suddenly and unexpectedly collapsed of a heart attack and died at age 47 at a time when I was completely preoccupied with my own world and not paying any attention to him whatsoever. I probably hadn't spoken to him over the phone in a couple of months. When I think of that night I am always reminded of the line that Cher spoke in Moonstruck: "How was I supposed to know that he was a gift I couldn't keep?"

But the suddenness of his passing left me with one other gift: I am completely unafraid to say "I love you" regularly to the people I love. I don't care if it loses meaning to them because it's repeated too often. Because you just never know which gifts you can keep, and which ones you'll be forced to let go of in this life.