Sunday, March 30, 2008

Clueless


So Drew is playing in two bands. The first is BLOODY SOCIAL, the one I’m often blogging about that attracts a lot of models. They all have long hair and are very superrock and I love the music and get along great with them and we often have long conversations about Guns n’ Roses and Zeppelin.

The second band is GOD FIRES MAN. They’re an emo/indie band that attracts a lot of Williamsburg types and I don’t get the music at all. I stick out like a sore thumb at the gigs and I spend a lot of time commenting on the sartorial style of their fans. But they’re extremely nice guys, fun to be around, and they’re very hard-working and very talented players.

Both bands are experiencing decent levels of success/interest at the moment, and Drew’s just working his ass off in both to try to reach a level where he can make a living playing music instead of working side jobs to pay the bills.

So he has to translate all of the emo workings into superrock terms for me when he tells me what’s going on with God Fires Man, because I am so completely clueless:

Drew: I got pretty good news today. We’re going to play some gigs with Thursday, and Taking Back Sunday has expressed some interest.

Me: Who? What’s up with the weekday names?

Drew: You know those bands that always play Saturday Night Live that you hate? You know, when you get all upset and call me at work to complain that culture is dead? It’s like that.
 

Me: Oh, yeah… ick… So they have followings? What like, girls in loafers?

Drew: They’re pretty big, Mary.

Me: Like how big? Velvet Revolver size?

Drew: Well, Thursday’s probably the same, Taking Back Sunday is much bigger—like Velvet Revolver plays Hammerstein, Taking Back Sunday plays the Garden.

Me: Wow. So A LOT of girls in loafers. And I suppose those guys with side parts and little bits of hair in front of their ears that they style… Sigh…so there really are that many people out there who like that crap?

Drew: This is a good thing, grandma. Try to stay with me for a minute.

Me: Oh! Yeah, okay. Sorry…congratulations, baby!

Drew: Sigh...

Friday, March 28, 2008

Urban Survival Rule #56


Do not mess with the transsexuals, dumbass. 


Miss Mimi Plastique:




Saturday, March 22, 2008

Blech

A few days ago I became infuriated by a small situation in my life and changed my status update to read "Queen Vixen is really sick of groupies with industry jobs." Which is true, but then I thought it was a bit harsh and personal for a status update so I took it down.

I’ve had numerous conversations with a 24 year old girl who works in my office about how relentlessly awful the females of her generation are to each other. Now, I don’t think that my generation in our twenties was perfect in any way, but at least in the EV we had an old school code of  behavior towards our sisters and frenemies when it came to men. We still screwed each other over but we had the decency to feel badly about it and would occasionally beat the crap out of each other for it. This was a system that maintained some semblance of order.

I’ve always been fortunate to attract loyal friends who refuse to let the opposite sex get in the way of our friendship. If my bandmate or my sister found someone attractive the thought of being with that person would be inconceivable to me. Back in "the day" it was automatic, we just had our code of behavior and that was that. If you couldn’t live by that basic ethic you’d get kicked out of the "gang" and then we’d do really juvenile things like hiss and throw gum in your hair when you walked by us in the Cat Club. Dumb yes, but it was a structure that worked for us.

Lately it seems many of the younger females I encounter have no code of ethics. It’s not that they’re flouting any rules, it’s that there are no rules. It’s a frigging jungle out there, and at first I thought I was just being cranky and reactive (who, me?), but the afore-mentioned co-worker corroborated my findings.

A few months back Drew had a gig with Bloody Social and afterwards a large group of us sat around a coffee table at Lit (nexus of the Universe) having drinks and celebrating. The place was jammed, but we had the back room and at the table were seated five or six guys, then me, the obligatory girlfriend (poor Drew), and two or three really young models. Out of the blue the most irritating and probably youngest of the models jams her hand into her pants and starts masturbating.

Whaaaaa??

So me being me, I immediately react and shout, "Oh no! I cannot watch this. Cut that out right now. Stop it. STOP IT."

I mean really. Can’t a jaded, middle-aged woman get her drink on in a shitty ass basement without some anorexic teenager putting on a goddamn amateur show?

So she yanks her hand out of her pants and says, "Uh…I was just looking for something." Yes, that would be your clitoris, brainiac.

And half of the guys (not Drew, who knows better and is just laughing and rolling his eyes) moaned a collective "Awwww!" in amused disappointment. I said, "I’m sorry guys!" and that was the end of it. Except you know, now we call her The Masturbator and I tell that story constantly, especially if she’s in the room just out of earshot. ’Cause I’m good like that.

But honestly, the maternal part of me just wants to grab her by the ear and send her home for a good night’s rest. Except home is probably a luxury loft full of others just like her all snorting coke off of the dicks of guys who will never call again.

But I don’t even know her. Where are her friends? I don’t think she has any. None of these girls are really friends to each other. They’re just like little sharks, swimming in the water, chewing and being chewed.

So there’s that kind of girl lurking about, and they’re absolutely fascinating to me. In our world they’re used to me now and we co-exist fairly peacefully. I watch them closely like a social scientist. If there’s a problem I just bare my teeth for a second and they scatter, they’re so weak from hunger they don’t put up much of a fight. But there’s another one who has gotten under my skin this week:

This other one is generally plainer or less interesting in some way and has to work harder to get noticed, so she gets a job in the music industry in order to hang out with guys in bands. She doesn’t masturbate with her hands, she jerks off bands with weblogs and bookings. But it’s equally as pathetic and obvious. And this energy combined with the current 21st century do-not-give-a-shit-about-my-sistren, dog-eat-dog code of ethics is absolutely heinous to behold.

I don’t begrudge a girl getting her groupie on. Lord knows I did not chase down New York rock and roll because I wanted to marry an accountant and reproduce. I have had my groupies and been a groupie. Either one is cool and I’m not afraid to say I’ve been a groupie. I’m just saying I prefer a little honesty with my whoring.

I never thought I’d miss some of those stank bitches in hot pants that lurked in the VIP room of the Limelight, offering my boyfriend a blow job as soon as I left for the bathroom. Now it all seems quaint, and at least I knew that that’s what they were there for. And when my friends threatened to kick the crap out of them they had the decency to move on for the night. And the women who did manage to get into the industry back then had to be twice as good as the guys and were still so abused that for the most part they remained very serious about who and what they fooled with.

Now the industry is shot to hell and everything’s run via myspace and it’s all DIY and confused and any hooker with a laptop can appoint herself management and lurk at every gig and festival cultivating "friendships" with the bands. And I guess I don’t generally begrudge them if they stay out of my life. But this week I got on the short stick end of some really selfish desperation and it’s made me a little pissy and I’m gonna bitch about it to you people.

I’m f-ing tired of snotty-ass losers in loafers pretending they don’t notice I’m standing there when they jump on my man to say hello. You see me, mouseburger. You think if you pretend I’m not there he’ll forget I am too. And I am sick of these random "business associates" that acquire email addresses and phone numbers for "business" purposes and then use them for anything but. I am annoyed by artfully arranged photos designed to fool the viewer into thinking that said chunky-heeled mouseburger is more intimate with my man than is actually the case.

Because that’s her entire reason for being there, for getting the job, for making the connections, for booking the shows, for taking the photos, for managing the studios and the artists: it’s all so she can get in tight and have a better chance at getting some of what the rest of us are having. And if she’s not getting it yet she’ll at least try to make it look like she is.

Guess what, corduroy: You’re never gonna be standing in my spot no matter how many laminates you get for SXSW. The only reason you’re even stinking up the vicinity is because his band needs the discount and you’re an easy lay for the entourage.

Feh.

There are a lot of amazing, hard-working, sexy, honest women in the music industry who like the rock boys as much as the rest of us, but don’t fake a career or attempt to stand on the girlfriends’ heads to get in there. It’s still incredibly sexist and difficult out there, and I hail these women for their fortitude, call many of them friends, and wish there were more of them around to shove the pretenders out of the arena.

Sigh...I guess that’s the end of my rant. I just needed to vent. And maybe mouseburger will stumble upon this while stalking for info on my man. Because yes, bitch, I am on to you, and I am talking to you. Though I am ancient and working diligently on my maturity levels, there’s always the good possibility that I could have a moment, snap on your indie ass and "accidentally" grind my Louboutin heel into your laptop when you set it on the floor in an attempt to get a better grip on someone else’s boyfriend.

See, I’m old school like that.

Tuesday, March 11, 2008

Thursday, March 6, 2008

Pupaganda

There is a video on youtube right now showing a soldier in Iraq named David Mortari throwing a crying puppy off of a cliff.

Although a few people have sent me the link to the video, I haven't actually watched it. I've only seen the first shot. I am incapable of viewing darkness involving animals without days of insomnia and deep depression following. I just can't handle it.

I am finding lately that I am less enraged by this kind of stuff than truly, deeply saddened. I don't want to find the soldier and torture him or throw him off the cliff. I just want to make him stop. I just don't want puppies to suffer because people are sick--sick in the head, sick in their souls, sick in whatever way that makes them incapable of empathizing with another's pain, incapable of protecting the innocent.

Still, it's interesting to me that we're surprised that boys we've trained to fight and kill are inured to killing. It doesn't make sense to me to draw the line in some places and not in others. It's time for us to realize it's all one, we are all one, and that none of it is okay.

I don't want to imply in any way that I think all of the men and women in service are this hardened. I think there are all kinds of people in all walks of life, and although I disagree vehemently with our current administration, I would never disparage any or all soldiers as puppy killers. I'm just saying that as a society we need to take responsibility for the monsters of our own creation.

ROCKET found a website with a some really interesting posts discussing our government and its responsibility regarding acts of terror committed by American citizens. I haven't finished reading much of it yet, but I thought it was worth telling you about: It's PUPAGANDA.

As for that puppy, I'm just doing what I always do when powerless in the face of absolute evil. I'm handing it over to God/the Universe, which is infinitely wiser and kinder than I am, and was there when it passed to the other side. If I don't trust that there is a larger plan I will go mad with the sorrow of these acts.

Tuesday, March 4, 2008

Dogs and Dentistry

Holy crap!

Today was another fine day at the dentists office, continuing the series of tortures devised to contain the rampant gum disease that took over my mouth at some indeterminate time. I got to see my periodontist, who I've become quite fond of and familiar with, for a scaling on my right side.

A scaling consists of about 10 shots into that tender space at the top of your gums, and then major scraping of the teeth underneath the gums. With each shot you grow more tense and freaked as it's both excruciating and weird. The capper is a blinding shot right above your front teeth which hits a nerve which then sends an arrow of pain up through your tongue and into the back of your throat. It is both bizarre and awful, and hit some pressure point which sent me into an embarrassing fit of weeping and shaking.

I tried to explain in between sobs that I am not usually this nutty and and can sit through multiple consecutive hours of tattooing with nary a drug nor a peep, but I knew I was just scaring the crap out of the dental assistant, who handed me tissues and looked nervously at the door for escape.

Well, me too, pal!

My periodontist is the bomb, though, she's French and very small and elegant and wears a pink lab coat. She says things like, "You are ztill young and byootiful and we must do everysing we can to zave your teef." And then she wipes my eyes and pats my hand and tells me to take deep breaths. I know she's just saying whatever she can to calm me down and get on with it, but I like that she's fancy and tells me what I want to hear.

After the shots are given and she digs around with pointy instruments for what feels like an eternity, they throw you out on the street to find your way home alone, tear-stained and drooling blood out of a slack and benumbed hole that was once your mouth. So pretty. It's extra delightful for me because the office is in Soho, which means the streets are crowded with gorgeous people darting in and out of places like Chanel. There are generally no cabs to be found and I lurch home as best I can (I am not an animal!...), dabbing at the drool and snot every few seconds, praying to God for no run-ins with friends, acquaintances, or enemies.

So the whole time I was twitching in the chair I kept thinking about my dog. As mentioned before in previous blogs, he was badly abused before he came to me. He's just twitchy and terrified you're going to beat him, no matter how much loving care he gets. Lately we've taken to calling him the Goggin, because he's kind of like the golem from Lord of the Rings, except much cuter and instead of a ring he's very attached to a pink satin pillowcase. Dog + golem = Goggin.

Okay, I guess you have to be there.

Annnnnnyhoo, every time he gets a bath he stiffens up and crosses his paws in front of his chest and his eyes get really wide and crazy looking in terror. It's absolutely ridiculous and over the top, like a silent film star, but he does it without fail. And that's exactly how I felt in the dentists chair and the image of him kept floating through my brain.

Which leads me to the actual point of this blog. Ha! You thought I wouldn't get there!

I got this email from my friend TARA ANGELL, who fosters cats:

"In a city of $7 latte's, $2500 studio apartments, and $2000 designer tea cup yorkies, it shames me to report that the amount of euthanized DOGS and CATS in 2006 in the NYC city shelter system was nearly 400 per week. Most of these were killed due to LACK OF SPACE AND NOT FOR BEHAVIOURAL REASONS. Times that number by 52 and you get a disgustingly large amount of animals killed by the New York City Shelter System (20,000!). Greatest city in the world? Financial Center of the Universe? What the F???????"


Well, I highly doubt NYC is the only city with these figures. So I went to WWW.HSUS.ORG and found these numbers for 2006:



Number of cats and dogs entering shelters each year:

6-8 million (HSUS estimate)


Number of cats and dogs euthanized by shelters each year:
3-4 million (HSUS estimate)


Number of cats and dogs adopted from shelters each year:
3-4 million (HSUS estimate)



Ugh. Just let that sink in for a minute. I am fully aware that I'm preaching to the choir in my blogs, but I feel I must throw it out there again.

There are far too many animals out there without homes, and far too many being put down just because homes aren't found quickly enough. And for those of you squawking about no-kill shelters, many of the discarded pets that get there spend too much time in cages to ever be properly socialized and usually end up miserable and neurotic from lack of attention. Life in a cage with no one to love is no life. Domestic animals need our care, our shelter, our love, exercise, sunlight, and attention. We created them to need to live with us, and too many are starving to do just that.

In addition, many of the puppies that are being bred to be sold are not being reared under loving, healthy conditions or with any regard for genetic health. If you are interested in that topic, just google "puppy mills" and you'll be nauseated in no time.

I've purchased two dogs in my life, and they were both awesome, well adjusted, cheerful little maniacs. My Pomeranian (Bean) had a lot of health problems towards the end of her life due to over-breeding, and I'm pretty sure my Pekingese (Panda) would have as well if he hadn't gotten hit by a car at a young age. At the time of both purchases I just didn't have it in my head that buying was feeding into the machine.

Now I have another Peke that I adopted, and I suspect that he too has purebred health issues. He does have epilepsy, but we're not sure if that's genetic or due to the abuse. And even after years of tender care he's still an emotional wreck. He came to me ruined and with rehabilitation he's cheerful and happy, but he still can't handle anything a normal dog can once he gets outside of my apt. It's like having a handicapped child. Or a Goggin, if you will.

So I KNOW first hand that it's easier to purchase than adopt. I'm not sure I would have taken him if I'd known how difficult it would be, but I do love him very much and he's a pretty good little guy who will sit at home quietly for hours waiting for us to come home. And I know I changed his life from bad to good and that's pretty rewarding.

But just to reiterate for those of you who aren't aware of how awful the problem is, I want to give a quick list of things that are important to do with our pets:

1. Adopt. If you are inexperienced and can't deal with an adult dog who may have issues, get a puppy. There are plenty. If you want a small dog, it just takes more time digging around on PETFINDER. There are also organizations dedicated to rescuing certain breeds if you have a particular one that you like.

If you want a cat, there are a ton of them on there as well, including fancy mush-faces (which I am obsessed with) and they don't become as nutty as dogs can be when ill-treated. There are so many frigging cats that need homes it's epidemic.

2. Spay or neuter your damn pet. Please. We don't need any more. No really, we don't. I know your dog is awesome, but get a grip.

3. Do not, under any circumstances, discard your animals because you're moving, your new boyfriend is allergic, you're a selfish lazy fuck, whatever. When you drop your pet off at a shelter, you're abandoning them to terror and sadness in a cage and then probable death. Don't kid yourself that your situation is different. It's not, your pet enters the same system with the others. If you have an animal it is your responsibility to make sure it is taken care of for the rest of it's life. Period.

Okay, that's the end of the lecture. I just didn't feel like I could let those figures go by without commenting. I'm gonna go sip soup and feel sorry for myself now...



Saturday, March 1, 2008

Clean

First, re my last blog—the co-worker I spoke of is actually a supercool and smart person who went home and researched and listened to Suzi Quatro after our t-shirt conversation. She's now terrified that a posse of ancient, angry rockers are going to storm the store with torches in hand, so please don't be hatin'. P.S. The bitch was born the year I graduated from high school. How fucked up is that?

Some pretty interesting lessons have been coming my way, actually flying past my head at a lightning speed. I truly believe that we are in the middle of the planetary shift that so many people are speaking about, I can feel things speeding up and getting lighter all the time. It's really marvelous.

My mother did a reading for me recently and one of the things she touched upon was that it's time for me to start practicing unconditional love instead of seeing myself as separate from everyone except my friends or people exactly like us. I have built an entire life and personality out of separation, I felt separate from most of society from the minute I realized there was a society, which I'm sure is how most of my friends feel.

But she pointed out that because a lot of you people are kind enough to read my self-important ramblings, it is even more imperative that I operate from my higher self. So I'm working on it. Which does not mean that I am going to try to like everyone, which we all know is an absolute impossibility. And honestly, I don't want to be friendly with the whole world, I like being scary and unapproachable and keeping some initial distance. It's more about holding the consciousness when communicating with people.

This year has brought an incredible amount of healing to me. Drew's presence in my life has brought a security that I've never known, and with it I am learning to trust the world in a way that allows me to feel and act much less defensively than I have in the past. I will never be a mellow person, but I would like to speak and act from a clear and secure place rather than from a place of automatically shutting someone down or out before they have the chance to hurt me or invade my space in any way.

So along those lines I'm realizing it's time to be honest with people. Even though it's sometimes more work, it's also the cleanest, and I think (in the long run) the kindest thing to do, as long as we speak our truths with compassion for the other person.

There were three situations recently in which I just totally came clean with my thoughts, when in the past I would have just complained to my friends and then expressed my true feelings with random bitchiness. Two of them are not close people in my life and I could have easily kept them in the dark and not been too affected, but I went out of my way to explain some things because I felt that it was information they deserved to know. The third person is someone much closer, but I might have blown off the potential friendship and just gossiped behind her back because I didn't think she would "get it".

I expressed myself gently, but frankly. The first two people just disappeared. It was absolutely amazing. They just never responded and dropped off the face of the planet, which is pretty great because they were both annoying as all hell. The third person stepped up in a way that was well beyond my expectations and really lovely, and that was great too because I enjoy her company and now we can move forward with a real friendship.

So KIM and I had a conversation yesterday about how people are either stepping up like champions or dropping off like flies right now for both of us. The cosmos is just forcing the hand with relationships. And it's been clean and easy, there are no crazy dramas with anyone. It's like there's a giant cosmic broom in place.

Yesterday was such an in-the-groove day that I can't help but think that changing my focus is effective, and that there is something really big going on planetarily. First, there was the afore-mentioned person who stepped up. Then Kim and I confirmed that the same things are happening to each of us. Then Drew and I went out to visit MIKE while he DJ'ed at a delightful transvestite party. And I do mean transvestite: not transsexual, not drag queen, but burly men in crooked, ratty wigs and smeary orange-red Kmart lipstick, shuffling around in Easy Spirit pumps and librarian skirts.

I've never seen a more clueless and unattractive bunch, and I could not have been happier. It was awesome. One guy put his leg up on the pool table while he made a shot and his balls fell out from under his dress. Mike turned to me and said, "It's important to cherish these special moments together." Oh yes. Yes indeed, dear friend. I am SO taking my mom to this party next time she's in town.

Drew was in Drew on Fire® mode, and did some delightful dancing for us and "the ladies". He really wanted to put his head on one ample, ahem, "breast" for a slow dance, but alas, we had other places to go. We headed over to the polar opposite kind of party to hang out with Drew's band and the models and beautiful people who orbit around them. And that was equally as fun and just as silly, although much easier on the eyes and I'm guessing with a few less balls under dresses.

I rolled around on the couch with my favorite supermodel (being careful not to crush her delicate bird limbs) and Drew continued to entertain with the smokin' moves. And I was nice to everyone, even the twits (of which there are many in this crowd). Imagine that! We got totally loaded and it was an absolutely fun and completely pointless night.

This morning I woke up (late for work, with a hangover) and found the most vicious, vitriolic and abusive myspace message waiting for me from an old friend who has been descending into madness for some years now and has become increasingly violent tempered. I almost want to post it here because it was so crazy that it's entertaining, but I don't want to create a shitstorm.

The message was pretty much out of the blue, and I'm not sure what set it off, but even it's randomness is lovely in a way, because it seems that the Universe is just doing more cleaning for me. This person deleted me and ended what was left of our friendship, and I could not be more grateful that I didn't have to do anything to exorcise this particular toxicity out of my life. And I truly wish him the best, with no residual anger on my part whatsoever. We had a lot of fun and special times together over the years, and I value that. And he introduced me to Drew, who is my heart, and to Mike, who is my family. How can I hate that?

So the point? I'm not exactly sure yet. I'm just fascinated at how things are falling into place at the moment, and enjoying the experiment of being alive. And it appears that making the connection in my brain to at least attempt to operate in a deeper and more truthful manner is manifesting in my outer world.

I understand that it's easy to say this when I've got a fun job, killer friends, a loyal boyfriend and some really sexy cats:







But it hasn't always been this way, and it's deeper than that. I believe that we're in the middle of a giant shift in consciousness, and that because I have been handed the gift of some really happy times after an entire lifetime of being angry and in pain, it's my responsibility to pay it forward by reporting from the frontlines. It's time to either jump in or get left behind and I want to be on the ride.

I realize that not everyone thinks this way spiritually, and that's totally okay; you can think of me as a silly girl and I'm fine with it. Just do me a favor and please keep your balls in your skirt.