Saturday, December 19, 2009

JLG365 Interview


It's a snow day! Our tree is up and I've been in my pajamas all day with the pets, which is great. Not great - missing my ex-bandmates Vas and Loopy's band Hanzel und Gretyl tonight because of the flu. Hope they have a great show. I'll be here with my new neti pot. Sooo sexy.

And in the meantime, Jen from JLG365 was kind enough to interview me. The results are here:


Thursday, December 17, 2009

Texting with Guy



1 am Tuesday night:

Guy:
Me and Drew hate you.

Me:
You're just jealous.

Guy:
We've been laughing at your expense.

Me:
Like two fat girls in the cafeteria.

Guy:
Now he's hitting on me.

Me:
Hahaha! He likes old ladies.

Guy:
Obviously.

Me:
I gave you that one. I know you're alone at the party and need to look like you're texting a friend. 


Guy: Yes, thanks for making me look young and hip.

Tuesday, December 8, 2009

If You Wait Long Enough...


...you become relevant again.

From Bravewords, the link is here: http://www.bravewords.com/news/127881


CYCLE SLUTS FROM HELL Debut To Be Reissued In February

Rarities

Posted on Monday, December 07, 2009 at 13:18:05 EST


Legendary New York female biker band CYCLE SLUTS FROM HELL will see their self-titled debut album reissued on February 15th, 2010 through Ironbird via Cherry Red Records.

According to a press release:

This reissue has been digitally remastered and packaged with new sleeve notes by Malcolm Dome.

The group’s only record, it was released in 1992 and produced by Glen Robinson, producer of the 1989 VOIVOD album, Nothingface.

Cycle Sluts From Hell comprised of four women who made the likes of LITA FORD and DORO PESCH seem like the flag bearers for the Doris Day Abstinence Guild! Queen Vixen, Venus Penis Crusher, Honey One Percenter and She-Fire Of Ice not only looked like the ultimate biker fantasy women but had the voices to carry their attitude way beyond the belief that this was somehow a theatrical spoof.

They were also backed by some of the hottest musicians around – bassist Tom Von Doom, guitarists Chris Moffet, Pete ‘Lord Roadkill’ Lisa, Tom Schoonmaker and Ash Gray, with Scott DuBoys on drums (subsequently replaced on the album by Tony Price).

This reissue serves as a reminder of how good Cycle Sluts From Hell really were – with genuine pace, passion and performance they stood for all that is best in rock ‘n’ roll.

Tracklisting:

'Conqueress'
'By The Balls' (Dirty Version)
'Queen High Love'
'Dark Ships'
'I Wish You Were A Beer'
'Soultaker'
'E.R.K.S.' (Dirty Version)
'Speed Queen' (Dirty Version)
'Taste The Flesh' (Dirty Version)
'Badass Mama' (Dirty Version)
'Bloodlust' (Dirty Version)

Further details to follow.

Actual Cycle Slut From Hell commentary: 

I did get a myspace message from someone at Sony saying they were going to reissue. I'm glad because it means I can stop having to email the tracks to everyone.

I doubt we will see a dime of this.

Chris Moffett, Tom Von Doom, and Scott Duboys did not play on the album. It was Fernando Rosario, Bobby Gustafson, and Thommy Price, and of course, the inimitable Lord Roadkill, who also co-wrote all the songs with the ladies and was the only musician we ever considered an equal partner. Ash Gray is a great guy and played with us on the reunion, but was never there the first time around.

And I don't know what they're talking about with "(Dirty Version)" in parenthesis. If we recorded clean versions of those songs I was absent those days.

Still, it's nice to be remembered.  If only they had forgotten that butt album cover...



=D





Wednesday, December 2, 2009

Panther Boots

Last night was Storm's gig (actually 2 gigs, an early and a late show added because the first one sold out) at Joe's Pub, as most of you already know if you're connected to me. I really wanted my friends to see her because I knew it would be special, so I tried to push it on facebook and myspace. Electric Dave took some photos and I added a couple here, plus I was happy to be able to introduce Jo "Boobs" Weldon to Storm (a meeting of the titans!).

The show was somehow more phenomenal than expected, and expectations were already high. It could be argued that I am biased but the friends that came along felt the same way about it. I can say with total confidence that Storm Large is one of the finest performers I have ever seen in my life. It was also an emotional show for me as it's been a while since I've seen her perform in person, and many of the songs are so personal that I could not help to connect their lyrics and feeling to the writer that I love and the history that I know. 

At one point she said, "One of my best friends is in the audience. We used to do our weight in drugs back in the day, it's a miracle we look as good as we do." I clapped and waved my arms and then had to think for a minute... Did we really do that? It seems impossible now, but I know we did. 

Storm, more than any other friend in my life, is the one that I truly plumbed the depths with. We didn't drag each other down, we were good to one another and talked constantly about how we wanted to be better people. But we were both unconsciously determined to see how far we could take it. Storm and I have seen each other at our most raw, most fucked up, most vulnerable. We were young and wild and beautiful and full of self-loathing. 

Storm didn't have money to get new boots so when the heel broke off of one she pulled the other heel off too and tiptoed around the East Village for weeks. She told some confused kids on the street that they were her "panther boots". I had to duct tape a garbage bag to my smashed-out window after someone threw out all of my belongings without bothering to open it first. Storm helped me clean up the rubble and almost got shot by my psycho neighbor when she climbed a wall to look for my jewelry. It was all just part of the day.

So now we are adults and she is performing in a beautiful space for civilized people. And I am sitting with a glass of wine, watching while surrounded by people who love me and would never dream of throwing my stuff out of a window. Storm has the money for nice shoes. And she sings beautifully and honestly and I felt so overwhelmed by the sheer magnitude of it all, that we made it here somehow. We're still alive and no one is sobbing into a phone or tweaking out in a stranger's burned-out apartment with no electricity. We're actually fairly happy people. 


I could see so clearly that for all of the sadness that many of us have at not finding that perfect romantic soulmate, we have soulmates in some of our friends, we just don't pay attention sometimes. It doesn't always fill our hearts in the same exciting way, but it carries us for years, sometimes for our entire lives if we're lucky. I felt so inspired and happy to see my friend shine so brightly last night, and so grateful that we got to this point. It put everything in perspective for me--how tiny I still make things for myself sometimes when they are meant be grand, and how truly magical our lives really are. I know it's only going to get better.



Storm & Me


Jo Weldon, Storm, me
 


 


 


Wednesday, November 25, 2009

Let Me Touch Your Cookie

ME: This cookie tastes terrible. Where's my triple chocolate chunk?

DREW: That's MY vegan cookie. Put it back. You said you didn't want a cookie so I didn't get you one.

ME: No, I said I would just have a bite of yours, and you got all huffy like you always do, and you picked out an extra cookie. Are you telling me you only got these crappy ones?

DREW: Yes. I got the cookies I like for ME because you said you didn't want any. Stop eating my fucking cookie.

ME: This is not nearly as good as the triple chocolate chunk.

DREW: Well, you seem to be inhaling it just fine. You're really pissing me off. Stop eating my fucking cookies, Mary! You said you didn't want one!

ME: You are a bitter, bitter man. And that cookie sucked.

DREW: I hate you.

Tuesday, November 24, 2009

We're Moving - All Hipsters Must Go!

Wellll...I spent some of the weekend copying and pasting old myspace blogs into the blogger blog (Say it again--blog, blogging, bloggerty, bloggggg) and was slightly embarrassed to notice that there have been more than a couple of crap blogs in my history. But I don't mind too much because there were some decent ones as well and I can see that it has been great for practice, regardless of topic.


I also decided that it is self-defeating in some ways to continue to post the blogs on myspace as well as blogger, mostly because it splits the comments and traffic. I have never viewed the blog as anything other than a means of personal entertainment and connecting with my friends, but the truth is that if I want to get professional I have to get professional. So if you want to keep up with me, this page is where I'll be.


And because it's boring to make you read more than one blog about my blogs, I will spice up your viewing pleasure with these horrendous hipster photos. Please enjoy this opportunity to feel superior to Brooklyn's over-indulged youth and marvel at more proof that the apocalypse must surely be nigh. Our suffering will soon be at an end, my friends.



ImageImageImageImage

Friday, November 20, 2009

Bloaaargh


Hello good peoples!

I know that it's been a small time since I've blogged. The blame lies with a serious procrastination problem and Fallout 3 for the Xbox. It is imperative that I get my shit together and foment a writing career, and the task looms darkly over my bed at night, like a dream monster. It daunts. And when in daunt, procrastinate in the least cool manner possible. This is me on the weekends:





Nerd alert! But it has finally come to that place where procrastination ceases to be a viable option. All of my friends have publishing deals and are generously offering assistance. It appears that the shitholes we were living in and the crap we were doing to kill ourselves "back in the day" is entertainment now. Who knew? And I do have the ability to write when I put the controller down and stop yelling at my boyfriend, so the only hindrance at this point in time is ME and a desperate fear of change and success.

I had a great talk with Storm, who was here for a few days last week and who will be here next week to perform at Joe's Pub on December 1. We had a meal together and then had drinks with (her friend) Timothy Hutton and his pal, a man who stated that he worked for the government but wouldn't tell me exactly what the work entailed. It was some kind of cop-type job and although he wouldn't say too much about it, I got him to spill all kinds of juicy info on his personal life, which was HIGHLY entertaining. I love it when men I have no emotional investment in let me dissect their brains and hearts. 


In any case, seeing Storm and talking about her successes and our past and what I need to do was immeasurably helpful. She knows me well enough to understand what I need in the way of guidance, and I am much better with baby steps than one large picture. So I have formulated some baby steps:

--I have to move the decent portions of the myspace blog to my blogger account, which I only started last year while the myspace blog has been going for a few years. This will be a chore as there is no way to import directly, it's going to involve copying and pasting. A few kind people have mentioned that they've remained on myspace only to read my blogs, so for those of you who aren't aware, I have been posting the same blogs in a myspace free zone, here: Miss Anthrope's House of High Drama. For those of you who are reading this on the blogger site, thank you for keeping close tabs!

And while we're on the subject, what is everyone's thought on this blog sitch? Should I continue posting them in both places or just direct people to the blogger site? I'm unsure. Does it even matter?

--I have to put together a package to get myself a book agent. This won't be too hard as I already have stuff, it just freaks me out to think about it and I'm going to have to do some digging and editing to condense into something appropriately sell-able.

--I have to bug my friends to get meetings for me with their agents. The awesome part about this is that I actually have friends with great agents who are willing to share. I'm so fortunate that others' ability to get shit done has paved the way for my procrastinating ass. And then once I have said agent I will be able to put together and shop a decent proposal.

--Lastly (and most least, leastly?) I have to dig through all of my old photos and find a very old snap of Storm posing next to her date of the moment's ginormous cock. She sent it to me when she first moved to California, and she's raunchier than I am and talks about this massive organ in her show, so I promised I'd try to find the evidence. This is, of course, not part of the book plan, I just think it's a fun item to put on the list. Sometimes I can't believe the comic trajectory my life has taken, I am so lucky to never be bored.

It would undoubtedly be wiser to play my cards closer to the chest and not talk about this journey until it's actually underway. But I have never felt the need to hide anything I'm doing or thinking, unless to do otherwise would harm someone. And even then I still tend to compulsively spill everything (sorry, Mike). So that's the publicized plan for now. These steps are not too horribly terrifying (except perhaps that last one), and I should be able to chug away at a decent pace without getting too distracted by the Fallout wasteland. So thank you everyone for your words of encouragement, I am honestly very grateful at how kind you all are.

Oh, and PS-- On the friends with books tip, Eerie Von has a new book of photos coming out (Misery Obscura) and he's doing a signing at Generation Records on January 8th, so if you're in NYC and a fan, save the date. He informed me today that I'm in it, I'm praying it's nothing too heinous (you never know), but I'm sure the book is going to be special. He's a great guy and I'm excited to see him in person for the first time in quite some years.

Wednesday, October 7, 2009

Loving Cup


DREW: So it's been two weeks without drinking. I had a beer last week and half a glass of Persecco yesterday but even at work I've been totally sober.

ME: That's great, baby.

DREW: Yeah, I feel so clear. You know, you really see things differently when you're sober all the time, it centers you and your mind works differently. I don't even want a drink, a beer sounds gross to me right now.

ME: What are you going to do when you go on tour in a couple of weeks, are you going to try to keep it up?

DREW: Oh, I'll still be completely healthy. I won't need to go back to the old ways.

ME: Wow. So zen. So clear.

DREW: I know. I'm way past you now. We're going to be like that movie with Heath Ledger where they're both junkies and then he has to leave her because he's got his shit together and she doesn't.

ME: That's so sad. If only I could keep up with how magical you've become.

DREW: I know. I'll have to find someone younger who doesn't need to party.

ME: And I guess that means I'll have to find someone younger who can hang.

DREW: Well that should take about two minutes because you're a whore.

ME: Well, I'm not going to sit around and cry because you've left me for one of those plain jane retards you're constantly cultivating that believe your bullshit. If you want though I'll write down some makeup tips for you to hand out to the next one. I'll use the google translater to put it in German.

DREW: You are a penis flytrap. You are a maenad vibrating me into madness.

ME: That doesn't sound very zen at all. Maybe you need a drink.


Friday, September 25, 2009

Woo Hoo!


Jyrki from 69 Eyes included me in his top 5 gothic pin-ups for Metal Hammer.

69 Eyes Guide to Goth Pin-Ups


You KNOW this totally made my week!

Monday, September 21, 2009

Wicked Gravity

First, in a slightly better mood than the last blog. It was just one of those days.

Second, before moving on to anything else I'd like to state how sad I am about Jim Carroll's passing. I only knew him as an acquaintance, but he was close to someone in my extended family, and in my experience he was a very sweet, gentle person. His writing blew me away as a teenager trapped in Catholicism, and was one of the influences that brought me to New York. Upon meeting him I was not disappointed; he was a true poet, a deeply sensitive soul, and his words resonated far beyond the page. Our world is dimmer for his loss.

So I have been thinking a lot about the defenses we build up, and how what serves us in some ways hinders us in others. And in my own case, how difficult it is to get clear on what is real and what is past damage clouding my vision. At times it feels like madness, which in a way, I suppose it is.

No one is born angry or defensive. We get hurt in whatever endlessly varied ways there are to get hurt, and we start rigging pulleys and levers and straps to prop ourselves up in whatever ways feel necessary to get through the day. Over time layers are built up, and left unchecked we can become wrapped in probably necessary but very heavy layers of crap that restrict true movement.

Recently my inner circle of friends were discussing the drug addiction of someone we love. I had only weeks before that spoken to this person about their childhood, which was absolutely horrific, on a Bastard Out of Carolina level of sorrow, betrayal, and abuse. Just hearing a quick summation of it brought me to tears. So in our discussion I proposed that in order for this person to stop doing drugs, they would have to find other ways to deal with and cleanse from what must be a crippling pain, and to me that looked far more daunting than carrying a simple drug habit. Which is not to say that I'm advocating addiction, but trying to say that nothing happens in a vacuum and sometimes it isn't as simple as we'd like it to be. Sometimes the fucked up things we do keep us alive.

I have stated before that it's my own personal belief that the most offensive people are operating from a defensive position, even if we can't always see what they're defending. I know that to be completely true in my case. At my worst, at my most difficult, at my most offensive states, I have been attempting to protect myself. And sometimes those ways have been hurtful to others, and most definitely hurtful to myself. But we work with what we have.

So now I find myself in a position in life where many of my defensive layers just aren't making sense any more. Despite all and numerous attempts to prove otherwise, the person that I share my life with remains consistently trustworthy and solid. I find that rather than being the victim I once created my own personal armors to defend, I have instead become the asshole in the equation, tilting at my own windmills or behaving in unnecessarily fucked up ways simply out of habit.

It feels incredibly uncomfortable to simply be quiet and trust that things are indeed what they seem, especially when one is so used to the sky falling, the rug being pulled out, the words being a lie. And I am not just speaking for myself, I'm speaking for many people I know, and I suppose especially for the women I know. How does a person soften, when it took years to harden into a much-needed protective shell? Exhibit A:

me: So years ago I lived at the Jane West hotel
in a big room
Ingrid: is that the Jane hotel of today?
me: with Martine and Michael Schmidt
yes
Ingrid: ok
me: but it was WAAAAAY diff then
really gross
Ingrid: yes
I know
I mean I read
me: but we had this giant room
one of the walls was the other side of the room where they held Rock Hotel shows
6:13 PM like hardcore or metal
before there were any venues for that
Ingrid: omg
me: Motorhead
Madball
Ingrid: omg
me: whatever was loud
Ingrid: HA HA HA HA
amazing
you need to write a book
me: we shared a bathroom with a Chinese family who jammed the toilet EVERY DAY
Ingrid: omg
me: Okay, so my first real job was at Betsey Johnson
Ingrid: old new york style
6:14 PM me: and the manager was French
and he hired me bc he wanted to fuck me
and I was GREEN
Ingrid: nice
me: like fresh out of MI
so he was relentlessly aggressive
HORRIBLE
and one night he took me somewhere and then back to the hotel and I didn't want to let him in
and he pretty much bullied me into letting him in
like really abusive
6:15 PM so I let him in
and he fucked me
and it was horrible
bc I didn't want it
Ingrid: omg
me: and we sort of had a relationship for a short time after that
but it was just that I was so naive
I thought if you slept with someone they were your boyfriend
Ingrid: right
me: so I consider that this person raped me
he date raped me
and it was awful
6:16 PM Ingrid: horrible
me: like, really awful
Ingrid: do you know where that ass is now
can we get him hurt
me: You know, he never understood how fucked up he was
he came to a bar I worked in later on
about 10 years later
He said, "You're so tough now."
And I said, "I wonder why."


Exhibit B: Recently I'm standing at a show surrounded by people. A girl next to me points to the husband of a friend of mine and says "I hate that guy. He's married and he hits on every girl he can. He's so gross." My stomach drops and I say, "His wife is beautiful and brilliant." I feel sick inside because it brings back the memory of so many similar situations in my own life, and I know how hurt my friend will be eventually. A familiar voice inside of me says, "This is what happens when you trust."

Most of the women I know over the age of 35 are angry, really angry, for mostly legitimate reasons. I know I've spoken about this a million times already. But what I haven't fully worked out in my brain is what comes after that anger, which can fuel us and make us interesting, but in the long run doesn't serve us in a truly positive way. How does a person, when finally managing to pull themselves out of the line of fire, soften back into the original state of open faith? I am unsure, except that I know it involves a very slow peeling of layers and the patience of the people who love us. It is daunting and scary, but I guess necessary for the shift that we're all approaching. And in my case, I owe it to my boyfriend.

Sigh...I really hate being nice. Would be so much easier just to develop a drug habit, wouldn't it?

Tuesday, September 15, 2009

Bringing the Crazy

ME: Hello, Patricia Field.

CALLER: Hello, this is Crazy X from Crazy X’s Hat’s on X Street.

ME: Hi.


CALLER: I met Patricia some years ago and I want her to put our hats in the new Sex and the City movie.


ME: Well, that’s not so easy. There are thousands of designers trying to get their items in the movie right now.


CALLER: But we live in the neighborhood.


ME: Okay, that's great...You’re welcome to drop off samples at the store if you’d like, but it’s not a guarantee that she’ll use anything. We get tons of calls about this every day.


CALLER: So she doesn’t support the neighborhood.


ME: I’m not saying that. I’m saying that every designer in the world wants to have their merchandise in the movie and it’s simply not possible to accommodate everyone. Patricia chooses what she needs aesthetically and that’s it.


CALLER: So she only uses international designers, she ignores her neighbors.


ME: That's not true. Patricia supports many local and unknown designers.


CALLER: Well, she should use our hats. They’re exquisite.


ME (sighing): I’m sure they are. As I said, you’re welcome to drop off samples, there’s just no guarantee that she’ll use them. The movie is already in production.


CALLER: Well I don’t understand why she can’t support a neighbor.


ME: You know, we’re kind of going in circles. If you would like to drop off samples I promise you that Pat will see them. That’s the best I can do. Put a note with them and we’ll give it to her assistant. She comes in every day to pick up the mail.


CALLER: I saw that girl. It’s her daughter, right?


ME: Um…no. It’s her assistant.


CALLER: Okay, what’s the address of the store.

ME: Well, it is in the neighborhood...



Friday, September 11, 2009

High Decibels, High Glamour

Well, it's been a blogworthy couple of days, featuring both hard rock and high fashion, and a healthy dose of the low-brow as well.

Wednesday was a Motorhead show, which as mentioned in previous blogs, is a major holiday as far as I'm concerned. And lately I have been so sick of fashion and the dark, often misogynist gay politicky underbelly that accompanies it that I really, really, reaaaaallly wanted to immerse myself in a scene where no one gives a flying fuck about what you're wearing and the aural atmosphere is decidedly un-techno/house-inspired.

And it was delightful: ear-destroyingly loud, some mono-syllabic lout grabbed my ass, the beer was shitty, and everyone could headbang because there were no tiny hats on the sides of heads. Fabulous. Heaven. Perfection.

Afterwards there was the usual hurry up and wait to get backstage. I never think to make the appropriate calls beforehand, and believe it or not lost Lemmy's phone number years ago, so I always just wait until someone pulls us back there, which they did (thank you Brigitte!). And this year we managed to sidestep some of the crazier elements that often lurk backstage at a MH show, so that was an added bonus. All was copacetic, the Jack Daniels flowed, Vas made up a new hand signal (the Half-a-Horn), Cid gave Lemmy a beautiful ring she made and I've got his phone number again.

Matt Sorum was in the room for a few minutes; last year he produced a demo for Drew's band Bloody Social, but he had absolutely no recollection of me and when I said I was Drew Thomas' gf. I could see that he had no idea who Drew Thomas was either, even though Drew spent a week practically living in his house. Matt did play competently enough in MH drummer Mikkey Dee's absence, although I thought Matt lacked a little of the trashy fire that Mikkey has. I personally think Mikkey's a bit of a douche, but you can't deny his drumming skills and his hamminess suits the band.

The highlight of the evening was probably when a certifiably psychotic girl from our CSFH past was carried screaming out of the building by security. Every year something happens, she's either found wandering the crowd sobbing or backstage pitching a cokey fit over some imaginary drama. This time we heard her down the hall screaming, "LEMMY! LEMMY! LEEEMMMMY!!" in vocal tones that should only be employed when one is being stabbed. I still don't know what prompted the hysteria but I'm guessing that it was that the band have finally had enough and didn't allow her backstage this particular year. I was afraid to poke my head out into the hall and risk hearing my name called out in such a blood-curdling manner.

I did get to meet a lovely little old man who worked for Hendrix and was the person responsible for getting Lemmy his job as Hendrix's roadie all those years ago. He left the music biz and went into porn, and I was told that he has held the title "The Porn King" for some time. He's retired but he did ask me if I had ever been a dominatrix or would like to give it a try. For the nine millionth time in my life, that answer would be a big negative. But he was cute and funny in a pervy British way and he added a nice flavor to the mix.

We got this photo of the ladies with Lem, which prompted Drew to chuckle and say, "Aw...Look at all the whores with Lemmy! That's nice."





Then the next day (last night) was Fashion's Night Out, which for those of you who might be fashionably challenged, is a new marketing ploy meant to boost Fashion Week retail sales. Many high profile stores stayed open late into the night to participate, and of course in true Patricia Field style, we added cases and cases of free booze to the mix just to really fuck things up for ourselves.

Unfortunately I had a major tattoo allergy attack starting halfway through the Motorhead night, so by yesterday morning my entire face was covered in large scaly, bumpy, red patches. It looked as if someone had taken a sander to my face. And I had no choice but to be at the store to help manage the event--come hell or high water, dressed up for a party, meeting celebrities and yanking stolen goods out of drunkards' purses. I sighed, painstakingly painted on 3 layers of spackle, threw on a satin dress and tried my best not to stand under direct light.

The party was a total zoo, of course, with all kinds of fashion flotsam (Terrorist scarf, check! Tiny hat on the side of the head, check!) mingling with drag queens, transsexuals, super cute girls dressed in their best, and pretty much anyone who owns a camera and a website. My friend John Rizzo was hired for security and he stood next to me whispering, "What about that one, is she a girl? No, really? She's gorgeous! Okay, that one, is that someone famous? Who's that one, Lady Bunny?" I filled him in as best I could on gender choices and celebrity status.

My first really special moment came while chasing down a guy who threw a pamphlet at my head, erroneously thinking he was being funny. I was so angry that I ran too fast, and as I got to him my overpriced shoes slipped out from underneath me and I went down on my ass while clutching his lapels. I got up as best I could under the slippery circumstances, sputtering and bitching at him without pause while some lovely girl I'd never met before crouched down and put my shoe back on for me. It was really great. My ravaged skin under fluorescent lighting, my ass wet from the floor, the guy looking at me as if I should be carried out screaming, "LEEMMMY!"

Pat showed up with a CNN camera crew in tow, then Lizzie Grubman and Janice Dickinson rolled in along with some other celebrities that I don't know by name, and that really upped the boozey mayhem to a fever pitch. It turned into a feeding frenzy and we had to rope off the front door of the store and block the lower level as a VIP room. People told any and all lies trying to get past the ropes, glass cases teetered, at midnight I just threw my hands in the air and poured a large glass of vodka. I gave up trying to stop people from undressing the mannequins, yanking on boas, trying on wigs, throwing pamphlets. One of the designers participating in the trunk show threw up all over the floor, and their entire crew was so drunk they forgot to charge people for the items they were supposed to be selling. Whatever. It's a PF party, this is how we roll.

Pat was tired, she's been working long hours on the set of SATC 2, but she put on her game face and met with the public, which in her case is becoming increasingly difficult. I am constantly shocked at how greedy people get around celebrity. Many think they're being flattering when they're very obviously just trying to snatch a piece of the pie. Here's one convo I was in on:

RANDOM GUY: Hi Pat.

PAT: Hi.

RG: I'm so and so and I work with blah-de-blah.

PAT: Uh huh.

RG: We should get together and have lunch. Maybe we can help each other.

PAT (totally bored and blowing smoke over his shoulder): Uh huh.

ME (trying to fill the uncomfortable silence): Pat doesn't take lunches, she works right through them.

PAT (smiling): Uh huh.

RG (ignoring me): Pat, I met you at blah-de-blah's party ten years ago, and I thought to myself then, "This is a really cool chick! We could totally hang."

PAT (to me): I'm a cool
chick.

ME: Yes. Yes, you are, ma'am.


I did get a few less ignominious moments, Janice Dickinson gave me a friendly nose-wrinkle/wink, which thrilled me to no end because I love her. I know she's awful but I can't help myself. And I struck up a promising new friendship with the The Glamorous Monique, who has surged her face into a weird combo of sleepy surprise, has the most enormous boobs you've ever seen and spent a lot of peak party time walking around panty-less with her skirt raised above her waist. Once I got her to lower the curtain and converse for a while she turned out to be entertaining and very sweet. And I learned today that she was also once known as 80's transsexual porn star Sulka. So next time I see her I'll be sure to ask about that and will report back to you all.

And then afterwards John and I limped across the street to Bowery Electric to meet Jesse, Drew, Jamie Burke, and Jamie's girlfriend, Dutch model Mila De Wit. The lighting there is mercifully near-black, the music all rock and roll, and once again no one cared who made my shoes.

I will leave you with this very elegant video of the Glamorous Monique:







Thursday, September 3, 2009

An Open Letter to Leslie Crocker Snyder

First, I have to just send out a giant, whining, lay-on-the-ground-and-kick-my-feet pout to the Universe because I've gotten guest list offers for both Tom Petty and Wolfmother tonight, and I am exhausted and have to get up extra early tomorrow morning, so have to turn both down, and it fucking sucks. I am currently experiencing an emotional struggle with working 40 hours a week at something that is entertaining at times but doesn't fill my soul. I know that it's a standard work week and that many people would kill for my job, but at the moment it's crushing my spirit and I can't help thinking (as most of us do) that I was born for bigger things and deeper contributions. So I'm gonna think about that and blog about it later.

For now--Electric Dave sent this to me, I think it's pretty brilliant. The actual link is HERE.

Kristin Davis calls herself the Manhattan Madam. She is not the same Kristen Davis that stars as the prissy Charlotte on SATC, instead this Kristin is one of the people who helped provide Elliot Spitzer with his prostitutes, and she sent this letter to Leslie Crocker Snyder, who is currently running for Manhattan District Attorney. Dave tells me Ms. Davis has yet to receive a response.

I apologize for the small type, I'm not an html whiz and every time I try to change it everything runs together:


Dear Judge Snyder:

You are an accomplished and qualified woman seeking to be elected as the highest law-enforcement officer of New York County. I have attempted to pose an important public policy question to your opponent Cyrus Vance, Jr. without success. Now I wish to pose this same question to you as you seek the votes of wom en across Manhattan.

I supplied high price escorts for Eliot Spitzer during the time he was both Attorney General and Governor. Mr. Spitzer was good for a least one call a week for many years and spent hundreds of thousands of dollars on call girls at both the agency I ran and several others. When this became public I was charged and pled guilty to the promotion of prostitution. I served four months on Rikers Island when I could not post bail which was set at $2 million dollars.

Mr. Spitzer followed the same practice he pursued with Emperor’s Club VIP – sending multiple $5,000 checks to evade the bank’s financial transfer reporting requirements – a clear violation of federal money laundering statutes. He also transported the prostitute known as Ashley Duprè across the New York, New Jersey, Delaware and Maryland state lines in violation of the Mann Act. Former New York State Supreme Court Justice Ronald Tills of Buffalo was recently prosecuted for violating the Mann Act when he imported a prostitute from Hamburg, New York to Kentucky to perform sexual services. Judge Tills was sentenced to one and a half years in prison. Why not Eliot Spitzer?

You were quoted in the New York Daily News as saying you would not accept Mr. Spitzer’s endorsement as Mr. Vance did, nor would you asked him to hold a fundraiser for you. You also told the New York Daily News that you “favored equal treatment under the law,” whatever that means.

So I ask you now:
  • Do you think it fair and equitable that Eliot Spitzer violated multiple State and Federal laws and escaped prosecution while I was prosecuted and jailed for a victimless crime?
  • Is there, in this case, one set of rules for wealthy, politically connected men, and a different set of rules for average citizens who are women?
  • Do you think the way the court treated me compared to the way they treated Mr. Spitzer, was sexist?
  • Do you think Mr. Spitzer should have been prosecuted as I was or do you agree that he should pay no legal penalty for his multiple violations of the law?
  • Do you think it fair that Mr. Morgenthau placed my bail at $2 million for a victimless crime while those charged with armed robbery have bail placed at far less?
I have accepted responsibility for my actions and have paid a substantial price. I have no intention of ever violating the law again and am turning the page and devoting my time to being an advocate of reform of the Criminal Justice system when it discriminates against women.

I look forward to your response and hope you will respond in detail to the simple questions posed within.
I await your answers as you seek to be elected to this important office.

Yours in Sisterhood,

Kristin Davis

-------------------------------------------------------
Early Morning PS.-- I just learned that the Tom Petty offer was for a cover night, not the actual man, so I guess the necessity for foot-kicking is somewhat ameliorated. I just got an email from Dave saying the Wolfmother show was great. Le sigh...

Wednesday, August 19, 2009

Candle

I have forgotten far more events than I have remembered in my life, but once in a while I'll get a movie flash of some event or person or situation which will come back in picture perfect clarity.

One such recent flash was of the cremation room in the Humane Society I volunteered at in my teen years. It contained a freezer where formerly able-bodied and noise-making dogs and cats were stacked, quietly frozen, their fur stiff, waiting for Wednesday when the crematorium was used. Sometimes the metal table in the room would have bodies lain out in groups of two or three, if euthanasia had occurred recently. Obviously a very sad room, although I remember thinking that at least the spirits contained in those bodies were free: liberated from long, lonely days and nights spent untouched and unwalked in cages, free from feeling abandoned by the people who once owned them, free from sickness and want.

The vision of this room came to me while I was walking to work, I don't remember what set it off, but it hit me with such a lightning flash that I got weepy on the street. I'm sure being raw-nerved from weeks of tattoo allergies didn't help, and maybe even brought on this sadder memory. Sometimes feeling physically shitty can bring you to a more open place emotionally, although I wouldn't recommend it as a long-term goal.

At this Humane Society people would often drop off litters of puppies or kittens too young to fend for themselves. We would try to feed them with bottles or droppers, but usually they would die. Sometimes people dumped pregnant dogs or cats that they didn't want to deal with, or pets that they didn't want to take with them on a move, or sick pets that they couldn't handle. Sometimes we'd see their kids crying in the back seat of their cars. The small crew that worked full-time in the shelter were tired of repeating themselves, tired of the unending stupidity, but they would still give their speeches about responsible pet ownership, resignedly trying to educate a bunch of Michigan crackers on what it means to care for a domestic pet.

It was painful, to say the least, though I loved the animals and came regularly to do whatever was asked of me. Mostly it was cleaning cages and walking dogs. One of the larger blows for me was a friendship with a beautiful purebred female collie. She was giant and so smart. I walked her as much as I could while she was there, which probably wasn't much because I only visited on the weekends during the school year and most animals stayed for two to three weeks tops. I did get to spend some hours with her, walking the hills behind the shelter. She never pulled on the leash and being with her made me feel centered and calm. She was just a golden, perfect dog, and on our last walk she jumped up and put her feet on my shoulders and looked at me with what I believe was love and gratitude.

It was one of the purest connection moments I've experienced, human, animal or otherwise, and afterwards I felt sick to my stomach to put her back in her cage. I wondered, who could have discarded this amazing creature? I should have insisted that my parents let me take her, but we had a house full of animals already and she was so big. I hoped for the best for her, and when I returned to the shelter and she wasn't there, I didn't have the courage to research whether she'd been adopted. I also didn't go back into the cremation room to look. I never learned what happened to her and I have always wished I had been more aggressive about taking her out of the shelter. Thirty years later it remains a regret for me.

So there is much screaming about the fact that Michael Vick is being allowed to play football again, much hatred being shouted and some people are selling their season tickets to whatever team he's on now. I am so uninterested in sports I can never remember.

The anger is understandable. When you watch the documentary on the rehabilitation his surviving dogs have gone through just to be able to live semi-normal lives, you want to kill the people that would cause such pain. (I highly recommend watching it, I think you can still find it on www.nationalgeographic.com, just do a search for Michael Vick.) It's unbelievable: rape stands, tooth removal, bait dogs. It is truly an Auschwitz-esque existence for God's creatures, and those who participate should be punished.

I have condemned Michael Vick and his ilk many times online. But in lucid moments I know that fighting dark with dark only brings more darkness, and does nothing to alleviate the suffering at hand. Light is the only thing that will illuminate darkness. I don't give a shit anymore who is right and who is wrong, I just want the abuse to end. And I am grateful for Michael Vick in one way, which is that he is single-handedly bringing more awareness to the crime of dog-fighting than hundreds of PETA videos ever could.

Wayne Pacelle, President of the U.S. Humane Society, has enlisted Vick to speak publicly around the country in an effort educate young boys and men in inner cities to the fact that dog-fighting is cruel. Many of them have been raised with it (as he was) and see it as a sport, something cool and exciting. It is easy to disconnect to cruelty when you've been inured to it from childhood. And no amount of internet squawking by tattooed vegan chicks and ASPCA supporters is going to reach that demographic. They don't give a shit what you or I think, we are not even on their map. However, they do care about what Michael Vick thinks. His opinion carries a lot more weight in this world than mine ever will, so I'd rather see him free and making his football money and speaking to his fans about loving animals than sitting in jail doing fuck-all and looking like a martyr.

There is a 60 Minutes interview with Vick and Pacelle here: MICHAEL VICK ON 60 MINUTES, in which Vick discusses his remorse and change of heart. He is handsome, well-spoken, and appears earnest. Am I completely convinced of his sincerity? No, probably not, I can't peer into the brain of Michael Vick and he could very well be mouthing what his manager told him to say. But regardless of whether his motives are pure, at least for the moment he is bringing awareness and affording prime television airtime to the Humane Society and the issue of dogfighting.

And that, to me, is a candle in the dark.

Sunday, August 16, 2009

8 Miles Wide

Storm's new video. The song is so infectious you'll find yourself singing it out loud at completely inappropriate times. I love the fuck out of this woman!


Friday, August 7, 2009

Baby You Can Drive My Car

Omg. I have been experiencing the most excruciating allergic reaction to getting tattooed! And it's been going on for two months, I couldn't figure out what was happening at first and then finally put it together a week or so ago. The quickie rundown is massive breakouts and dry patches on my face, hives everywhere (and I do mean everywhere), constant itching followed by dryness and a general feeling of non-well-being.

I have been unbelievably uncomfortable and feeling unattractive for quite a while. So for those of you in NYC that I usually spend time with, this is the reason you haven't seen me lately and I'm not taking anyone up on invites unless they're really important. I'm just laying low, taking benadryl, smearing myself with healing lotions, and waiting for it to pass. I'm so self-conscious at the moment that I can't relax into face-to-face conversations. But it is getting better and since the tattoo is finished for the time being I know it has to end at some point.

Also, I want to mention that I am very appreciative of the comments I receive on the blogs, it feels like a visit from friends, and I often think, "Oh, yay, Julie!" or whomever when I read them. And then I get lost in the day and don't contact directly, which is I guess part of the life that we all lead on the interweb. There's only so much time to type at the monitor. But I am very grateful for the contact and read everything written to me thoroughly, and if you are feeling unloved you're always welcome to email me and ask, "Wtf, Mary? Why haven't you written??"

So, down to it...

When Lila left her body I had a lightbulb moment (apologies for the Oprah reference) that feels worthy of sharing. It was such a peaceful passing that I was able to remain present in the moment and observe what was happening. Last time I lost a pet it was my dog Panda getting hit by a car, and that was such a screaming vortex of blood, guilt, sorrow and panic that I didn't have any space to process the actual
process of death, if you know what I mean.

When the vet euthanizes your animal he or she first injects them with an anesthetic. In Lila's case she was already kind of out of it, although awake and aware. She screamed at him angrily when the needle went in, but then drifted pretty quickly into being completely stoned, and then further into unconsciousness. After the drugs have a chance to take effect, the vet then gives a second shot which is the killer (literally), and the effect is almost immediate.

So the interesting part of this situation is how different the two states are, even though the cat remained in exactly the same sleeping pose. One minute she was there and sleeping, the next we were petting an absolutely empty shell and as saddened as we were to never be able to touch her again after that day, it seemed pointless to stay in the room petting her lifeless body for too long.

Which leads me to the lightbulbing: At that moment I understood in a deeper way than before that we are not our bodies and are simply using them as vehicles. Which is not that new an idea, but I felt it throughout my being rather than only as an idea in my brain. It is so easy! Our souls are noodling around in various vehicles, some slick and fancy, some utilitarian and puttery, but all just vehicles, and all vehicles that we will step out of once they stop working.

A few nights later I visited some bartending friends (wearing 3 layers of makeup to mask the current delightful skin condition), and they were so busy and I am so antisocial at the moment that I had ample time to sit and and observe the crowd without conversating. As I watched everyone interact I thought about the choices that each one of us had made--clothing, hairstyle, job, friends, and yes, body and brain. It was so clear to me that we are just playing our roles of the moment and that we get so wound up in the parts that we're playing that we don't know how to step out and be amused by ourselves and our lives. We can't see our true selves in any sort of objective fashion because we're peering out from inside our bodies. And these bodies and lives are heavy trucks to drive at times.

So my question is, if this body/life is temporary, why am I taking it so fucking seriously all the time? Why am I not enjoying my (generally) healthy, attractive, intelligent state instead of stressing about my waist size or whether some dumb fuck at work doesn't understand my needs or desires? Why am I wasting one second feeling angry or stressed about bullshit when it's just a game that will end at some point? And the primary question is, why not just entertain myself with this game and try to make it as comfortable for myself and others while we're on the playing field together?

Obviously easier said than done. I still have to earn a living and suffer the occasional fool and not eat a pound of pasta per day. But it feels freeing to me, and I'd like to hang onto the feeling that I am a visitor and a co-conspirator with those around me. Try it next time you're in a crowd, I think you'll be surprised at how easily you can step out of yourself when observing others.


Tuesday, August 4, 2009

Thanks, Acey

My time under the reign of terror known as the Bloody Social gig has been well documented in past blogs, so I'll summarize here--

Essentially my current journey as a rock chick "of a certain age" committed to a rock musician still working under the current cultural climate in New York has not always been an easy one. I have managed to find my way through it and much of the experience has been instrumental in bringing up old demon energies and insecurities deep within my psyche for cleansing and release, and this is largely due to my good fortune in finding an infinitely patient and understanding boyfriend.

So whatever, that's the esoteric slant to the whole thing, the real topic of today's blog is the crap-ass clubs and people that populate our fair metropolis these days, the "models and bottles" culture so favored by the majority that are either too young or too stupid to understand that subculture, creativity, art, music, performance, etc. are entities to be valued and nurtured. It is my personal opinion (also well outlined in many blogs) that we have become a society that values celebrity and physical beauty above all else, eschewing the true beauty and truth that lies under the surface in our creative minds and hearts. And this breaks my heart every time I am standing in the middle of a room surrounded by gorgeous, vapid people grubbing for free bottles of vodka while ignoring whatever band is playing.

Enter Greenhouse, a much talked about "green" club in NYC. Now, I am all for the greening of America, one of the more positive things occurring in the 21st century. But the one time Drew played here I walked out feeling damaged, old, depressed, and wounded by the energy in the room. And I am an attractive woman who is granted entry into the "inner circle" much of the time. So if it beats the crap out of me, what must it do to someone with less armor and defense? The mind boggles.

Acey Slade and his band the Dark Party were scheduled to play Greenhouse last night and they pulled out at the last minute. I am posting the letter he sent out on Facebook afterwards, because I think his actions and words, were/are both eloquent and brave in the face of the bullshit that so many creative people face right now:

"First, let me begin by saying how sorry I am to those who did not see Acey Slade and The Dark Party perform tonight. But we stand behind our decision not to play and here is why.

What we saw tonight at Greenhouse NYC, disgusted us to the point of being forced to not perform. Our music brings people together in a celebration of life and diversity. Gay, Black, White, Transgender, Short, Fat, Poor, Rich, all are welcome at any show I put on. If you have a problem with the economic status, gender, race, or appearance, then I cannot endorse your company with me or my music.

What was not made clear to us in advance was that Greenhouse has a ‘discriminatory’ ‘dress code’ and would insult and turn away our friends. This was not addressed until about a ½ hour before we were to take the stage.

Upon seeing the way the venue treated our friends and fans I thought, ‘How could I stand on stage and sing songs about feeling isolated and different while my friends are outside, on the other side of the wall because they are ‘different’.

If I did, it would mean that me and my songs mean nothing.

Once it became clear that Greenhouse wouldn’t let people who looked like us in (?) on their ‘Rock Night’ (?) we had a band meeting that lasted about 2 seconds. We unanimously decided that given our options the RIGHT thing to do was not play.

We packed our equipment, told the promoter to fuck off and gave free T-shirts to anyone who was not allowed entry and did our best to hang out or talk to people who were allowed in to explain what was happening.

The amount of time, work, labor, and money that Andee, Percy, Chris and I put into this EP release and the release party is great and we would not set up all of our gear just to take it off stage without playing a note…

Unless we felt like we needed to take a stand for something we believed in. We believe in Diversity, Equality and Humanity.

We also believe that Karmas a bitch well move the EP release party to the show at Rebel on August 27th at 10:00 (AND is 18+) where WE (you, me, us!) will rock like fuck.

I hope that you understand and support our decision. "



Friday, July 31, 2009

In Sillier News

I'm totally hyperventilating right now!! My lovely and kind-hearted friend Cheryl found this for me, David and Sean Cassidy mentioning CSFH on national television.

I have to preface this by saying that my first major crush (after Kimba the White Lion and Jack from HR PufnStuf--don't judge!) was David Cassidy. I used to roll around on the couch in prepubescent anticipation of The Partridge Family's arrival at 9 pm on TV each week, I think on Friday night. First The Brady Bunch at 8, then Nanny & the Professor at 8:30, then the Partridge Family at 9. Ecstasy. I still know all the words to many of the songs.

So this is ecstasy Part Deux, around the 3 minute mark:



Lila Leaving

Wellllll...we put Lila down yesterday and although really sad, it wasn't as excruciating as I expected.

After I wrote that last blog I spent most of the night awake with her, as I had pretty much made up my mind that it was hopeless after she had a particularly rough seizure. I could feel that she was ready, and Drew concurred, which was helpful as it is very difficult to make that choice on your own. You second guess yourself and wonder if you're just being a selfish asshole who would rather kill their own pet than deal with a problem. You weigh out the financial options for things like MRI's for an aging cat, and then feel gross for thinking about it. It is so much easier when there is someone else in the room with the same knowledge and love of the animal who has come to the same conclusion.

Yesterday I took the day off of work to spend time with her and recuperate from a very emotional night. Drew had things to do so I was home alone with all of the animals, and the day went by slowly. Lila slept most of the time and it felt like we were all just waiting. Finally I got dressed and put her in the bag and started the 10 blocks to the vet's office. It was nice out and I was glad for the peaceful walk in the sunshine, which enabled me to center myself somewhat.

Drew met me there and they hustled us with sympathy into one of the exam rooms, which was nice because it's hard to deal with sitting in a waiting room with happy puppies and owners on cellphones when you're weepy and planning on leaving someone behind. The vet apologized for not being able to help our cat, and we told him we understood. Lila was quiet but panting and he gave her an anesthetic first, which slowly kicked in until she was sleeping. He left us with our sleeping cat and we petted her and told her she was awesome.

I squeezed her feet, which is an act I love that all my cats hate, and Drew said, "This is going to be me on my deathbed one day, isn't it? I'll be unable to move and you'll be poking your finger in my ear and looking in my pajama pants." And I said, "Yes, Andrew. And it's coming sooner than you think."

And then the vet came in and asked if we were ready, and we said yes, and he gave her another shot. And within seconds she was gone.

It is so interesting that the minute the soul leaves the body it really is just a shell. There is a huge difference between being anesthetized and dead. She was so very obviously not there any more, even though her body was still warm and soft. It was such a quiet release on life that it felt right and clean. The last time I had a pet die it was via getting hit by a car, so it was very nice to have a choice this time. And it was great to be able to make a choice that I believe my pet agreed upon. In some ways I feel lucky to be a part of such a holy experience.

Anyway, the main reason for this blog is just to let those that are interested know what the outcome was, and to thank everyone for the lovely wishes and condolences. I really do appreciate it, I know that she was just an ordinary housecat and sometimes it's hard for people to get their head around the loss of one being a big deal. I am grateful to be surrounded myself with people who get it, and the emails and texts and comments have been really lovely.

Wednesday, July 29, 2009

The Wind-up

Well, I had intended to blog about our latest summer vacation and an interesting reading my energy-working mother did for me, but one of my cats is doing badly and it's distracting me from all else.

We got home on Sunday night and a few minutes in she had a sort of seizure: her legs went all wonky and she sort of fell shaking into my hands onto her side and pulled her paws in very tight around her face. A minute later it was over and she was purring and seemed relatively okay, although obviously disoriented.

The next day it happened twice, so I freaked and called the vet. I got her in yesterday (Tuesday) morning and my vet, who is very nice and usually pretty good with whatever the issue is, got very focused on the fact that she was breathing heavy. Breathing issues usually mean fluid around the lungs which usually means heart issues.

Sooo, he kept her all day and took x rays and blood and urine, and in the evening I picked her up and was told that she seemed normal and to call later for the blood and urine test results. On the way home she had another seizure, and later in the night as well. Blargh. Put in another call.

Tonight we got home and noticed that she's always looking to the right, and seems to have to circle to the right to get anywhere. So that's pretty obvious, whatever it is it's neurological. She's there, but she's not really "there". She is clearly not herself and spends all her time curled up in a hiding spot, unable or unwilling to jump up anywhere, sleeping most of the time, visibly confused.

This particular cat, Lila, is the most "ordinary" of my animals, although she is very pretty. When I adopted her I was actually trying to adopt a golden Persian cat from the crazy cat lady who had her and about 15 others. The woman had actually put a screen in her bathroom door so she could shut some of the fosters in there. I imagine that's a pretty clear sign that your dating life is over, the minute you seriously consider a screen in the bathroom door. And she kept giving me reasons why I couldn't have the cat I wanted, and why I should take this other cat "Rifke", a fairly large tortoiseshell and white female housecat that she had stolen from an abusive deli.

I was not amused. I like fancy cats with mushy faces. But as I looked at this cat shaking my head I realized that while all the other cats clamored for food and attention, this one kept her back to us, quietly looking out the window. And it dawned on me that she was very sad and purposely refusing to participate because she didn't need any more rejection in her life. Maybe that was only me attributing human emotions to a cat, but I swear that the vision came over me so quickly that I felt what she was thinking. And so I said, "Yes. Give me that cat."

Rifke became Lila and turned out to be the nicest of my pets. She refuses to fight back no matter what the situation, and she will sit over you on the couch and lick your forehead if you are depressed or sick with a cold. The first time I picked her up and put her on the bed she looked absolutely stunned with happiness, she couldn't believe her fortune. She welcomes any other animal immediately into the apartment with warmth, and has helped me rehabilitate my fucked up dog by quietly spending time with him. He's completely attached to her and they usually sleep near each other. She is the most generous animal I know.

So although she is in my apartment at this moment and purrs when I pet her, I know that much of that is gone and it makes me very sad. I don't have a lot of hope that there is a miracle cure from the vet coming that will snap her out of this obviously serious issue in an aging cat. Interestingly, the vet called me just now while I was in the middle of typing this (9:52 pm, pretty decent guy) and told me it sounds like it's either a stroke or a brain tumor. Either way he said to be prepared to put her down as these things can turn worse quickly. Tomorrow we'll go back in again for another visit to decide whether to put her on palliative drugs to postpone the inevitable, or to simply go with the inevitable.

In the meantime, we're all in suspended animation. Drew sad at work, the dog keeping a respectful but concerned distance, Roquefort confused and sniffing her every few minutes, and Monty, my beloved familiar and the king of the household, actually deigning to lick her on the forehead and admit that he cares.

Lila just lies curled in a ball, when you pet her she presses her head into your hand and sleeps there, purring. Its one of the cutest and most poignant things I've ever had the privilege of participating in, completely quiet and full of acceptance. She's recuperating from one more seizure at the moment and when she's a little less dazed I'm going to talk to her and tell her its okay to go, although truthfully, I'd really rather she didn't.

Friday, July 3, 2009

Hmmm...

I think we can safely file this away in the "what in God's name was I thinking with that outfit??" file...


Saturday, June 27, 2009

Tattoo You

So... I ran the hell out of myself this month. I'm about 25 hours into a new tattoo, been working on it every Sunday for over a month. I always underestimate the suffering that will occur with these kinds of events - tattooing hurts a little, but whatever, it's not dentistry or childbirth. Still, the accumulative effects of weeks of being constantly sore, greasy, itchy and reactive to foreign substances do make the ass drag a bit.

Then my dear friend Jyrki arrived in town with his band the 69 Eyes for a listening party for their fabulous new album "Back in Blood", so that entailed two days of solid drinking and raising of devil horns, culminating in a very surreal 5 am scene in Masayo's messy apartment that included falling into piles of clothing and a drunken call to Bam Margera.

So--tattoo-ravaged system, excess alcohol, not much sleep = UTI. I won't get into that too much because this is a public blog, but any woman will tell you that the UTI is one of the worst of the mundanities of being female. Suffering, suffering, suffering. And THEN, gum surgery, which I unrealistically thought would keep me down for a couple of hours, but instead pretty much destroyed the remnants of my remaining health, filled my mouth with bloody stitches, and puffed out one side of my face most unattractively. I wanted to stay in bed forever.

And just to add a little spice to the mix, I have the dubious fortune of working with crazy people who love to scream about absolutely everything and thus made it even more incredibly unattractive to drag my suffering ass into the office. Luckily it seemed to sort itself out by the end of the week and I remain hopeful that my affection for homosexuals will not finally kill me one day. Every once in a while I shout, "It's fashion, people, not brain surgery!" And they all just look back at me, confused and stunned, as if I were rolling around on the ground and garbling nonsense in tongues.

But time and medicine have prevailed and I am on the comeback trail. Unfortunately Michael Jackson is not, and so my first foray back into the gym today after a two week hiatus included a solid hour of tedious MJ smoothies generously provided by my favorite Chisel teacher Carl who must have whipped together the CD just in time for class. One older woman behind me kept whining, "This song makes me cry!", while I grumbled, "This song makes me want to fling a weight at your bony ass!" But instead, I channeled the violence into buttlifts. Onward and upward, namaste, be nice and fucking polite Mary.

So what do I want to talk about today, I dunno? Maybe tattoos? This latest venture has (understandably) been making me think about them quite a bit.

Tattoos are SUCH a boring subject at this point. Everyone's got them and it seems more rebellious to stay completely clean if you are young. I'm always telling non-tattooed 20-somethings to hold off. But I am not as young and got tattooed a very long time ago for what I believe were legitimate and valuable reasons, and I have been wanting to balance out my arms for a while. It felt halfway to have one arm covered while the other was blank.

Over the last couple of years I've gone to a few different people, and though all expressed interest in my ideas, no one followed through and I put it on the back burner, figuring it was not meant to be or the right person would come to me eventually. She did, practically knocking on my door. And when we talked about what I thought might be cool she told me she really wanted to do it, and within two weeks it was underway. WWW.WENDIKOONTZ.COM. Get her now because at the moment she has no idea how incredibly talented she is and I predict her career is going to kick into overdrive fairly quickly.

The only remarkable thing about getting tattooed at this point in my life is all the varying opinions I have over the course of days or hours. One minute I'm content that it's happening, the next I'm thinking, "Omg, what have I done??" One minute I think it looks great, the next I'm panicking over the creative decisions that have been made. It feels absolutely corny to say it, but getting a large tattoo is life-altering because you are altering yourself, your self-perception, the perception others have of you. Someone in the gym called me "Miss Tattoo" today, and I thought, "Ugh. Is this who I've become to strangers?"

But everyone I love is covered in old and new ink, and it is a part of my cherished rock and roll culture. When I began it meant something deep to me, even though I approached it like the proverbial drunken sailor and paid for the first one with quaaludes. It really is only skin deep but it's still a rite of passage of sorts and I do know that even today it still makes a statement of separatism from the over-privileged preppy contingent that roams our urban landscape so freely these days. And that suits me fine. And it hasn't escaped me that the arm that started 20 years ago is covered in hard, defensive looking angles, while the one now is much softer in energy and line. It does appear that tattoos are more permanent than opinions.


So that's it for today. I'm back under the gun tomorrow and will be back in action socially next week for Ali's birthday celebration and Mike's annual July 4 BBQ. I'm sure a new blog will come out of that, he's way too nice and alwaysinvites someone awful, which sucks at the moment but provides quality writing fodder. Life is good.