Old Americans

I have been platinum blonde for most of my adult life.

While various lapses in judgment saw me dabbling in blacks, browns and - gasp - the occasional red, i have long been, and will likely always be a blonde.

My first foray into "other colours" happened in my mid-twenties. Sick of being yet another blonde head in Orange County, CA I concluded that going dark would set me apart from the pack.

And I was right - sort of.

What I didn't anticipate was the resulting chaos that ensued the moment Miss Clairol had finished her filthy business with me.

The litany of horrors stemming from this seemingly harmless change was so overwhelming that friends began to comment it and, eventually, I wrote and self-published a comic aptly titled My Life in Brunette Hell.

There were 7 action-packed issues featuring such memorable moments as "My Maxi Pad Fell Out of My Pants While Talking To A Boy Today" and "Help! My Roommate Barfed on the Sofa With A Cock In Her Mouth" "I Think He's Dead, But His Door is Locked" - and other heartwarming classics.

Years later, I was compelled to start jotting my thoughts down again, and, like any good digital citizen, began to blog.

I was in this period of (what I like to think of as) deep introspection when, walking to work one day, I ran into the older brother of this guy I had been fucking crazy about when I was, like, 15.

Seeing him reminded me of a bunch of shit that I had filed away for what must have been close to 20 years. This prompted me to blog about it in an embarrassingly honest fashion, which is and has always been, my way.

After all, the internet is anonymous, right?

About a month ago I get an email from the subject of said blog.

It took me a moment to register where the fuck I knew the name from - I knew I knew it but from where? Ah yes. Oh fuck. Of course.

A few exchanges back and forth followed by a phone call.

And while I think I already knew the answer I stupidly asked "How the fuck did you find me? The response: "Your blog."

Oh right. That. Apparently a girlfriend of his had found it when Googling his name shortly after it was written, and now - a full six years later - my online rambling had come back to bite me in my (admittedly spectacular) ass.

Swear to god, shit like this can and does only happen to me.

Lucky, lucky me.

Granted, it’s weird talking to someone you never even really knew in the first place; the common thread being the place we grew up and a love of hashish in our formative years but he was funny, sarcastic, a little bit filthy with just a hint of dirt bag. Exactly the way you want to remember the recipient of the second hand job you ever gave to be.

We shot the shit and promised to grab a drink the next time I was out that way again.

Some people don't like to go back to the place where they grew up. Most people I know don't even like to see people they grew up with. But I fucking love it.

I left home at 15 and was spared from having to burn out in the shitty town where I was born. An unplanned pregnancy didn't find me married to someone I went to high school with. As far as I know, none of my friends ever made out with my husband at a keg party in '89. I left before I "needed" to and as a result I do not have a sense of disdain for my past and the people I used to know.

Truth be told, I like going back. It's like a surreal postcard from a former life that, while it seems oddly familiar, is also a little voyeuristic. It’s incredible to be able to catch glimpses of people and places that meant something to you at one time in your life. Things you have forgotten about or, at the very least, never thought you would encounter again when you closed a certain chapter of your life. I won’t lie, I’m a glutton for nostalgia.

And so I emailed and suggested we go for a drink in a few weeks. I had to help my mom with a few errands, and would be out that way regardless.

The whole thing was just so fucking weird I felt it warranted alcohol some degree of self-deprecation – likely mine. Of course I was looking forward to it.

The weekend comes and I drive my ass out to my Moms house, we run some errands, I meet some friends for coffee, look at a horse for a friend’s client, run a few more errands and take my Mom out for dinner at the fucking Mandarin (her choice, not mine.)

And then it dawns on me.

He is going to bail.

I got to Craig’s around 8pm and was greeted by the Mighty Hinshelwood standing in his garage smoking Marlboro Lights wearing track pants.

He ridiculed the parking job I gave my Volvo wagon and invited me in for all Jack and Diet Coke I could drink.

We spent the night with his lovely wife, eating grilled cheese and exchanging sarcastic barbs, crying with laughter as we updated each other on what had happened to whom since the last time we met. Its true, people don’t fundamentally change and I enjoy him now as much as I did when we hung out in his parent’s basement and listened to punk records from England.

On my way out the door the next morning Craig put his arms across his chest and says “So you’ll be sure to call the next time you’re in town and get blown off for drinks by some asshole who is not your husband, right?”

“Fuck off, Craig”

“We love you, Mere”

“I love you too”

Fuckable After 40

A colleague of mine is doing an editorial piece on the power of, um, Power Ballads.

Which got us all on YouTube in an effort to jog our memories in the search for ironic gold.

I chose to go the Skid Row route. As any woman over the age of 32 can attest to, like him or not, Sebastian Bach simply was the hottest, most heartbreakingly beautiful man on video circa 1989.

Literally born for the career he chose, Sebastian was a perfectly sculpted, bare chested specimen who - unlike most of us - looked fanfucknigtastic in leather pants. And even better in sweat.

His features were so delicate - so perfectly carved as if by the hands of angels - and it was with nothing short of wonder that I would admire flashes of his face across the television screen.

But how does one get past that? Reminiscing about him today led us all to the inevitable question of "have you seen what he looks like now?"

Sure, he doesnt look like he did 20 years ago - but who does? I sure as hell dont.

At the ripe age of 36 I now avoid looking in mirrors, and refuse to be in the same room as one (even in my own home) if I am in any stage of undress. But that's ok, because I was never that beuatiful to begin with. Us average folk are allowed the grace of imperfection, and are expected to degrade slowly over time.

Sebastian Bach, on the other hand, will always have to wear the crown of his former youthful perfection. Sure, he is still technically better looking than most people half his age. To be fair, the man still has a great physique, and has been able to maintain more than just a whiff of his former glory. So why does it feel so fucking disappointing?

I wonder if its hard for him, too. I mean, what is it like to know that, at the age of 28, you are riding the tail end of your glory days? Sure, he's a great singer and I am sure he is a wonderful person, but at the end of the day, it was his face (and okay, I'll admit it, his ass in those pants) that sealed the deal and made him something special.

But which is worse? Having "average" levels of physical beauty for your entire life - or having so much physical beauty, and knowing it can never be maintained.

Does "God" hand out beauty, and if so, are we all given the same amount? Is the only real difference between us all the rate at which we expend it?


I'm kinda glad to be a slow burner.



http://http://www.sebastianbach.com/pictures.html

It's Only Humilating If You Admit It...

Weeding through a box of junk today, I happened upon a diary that I kept during my ealry 20's, most of which were spent pining for a boy I was sleeping with on a regular basis-but who only thought of me "as a friend."

I spent endless hours devising all manner of plots and schemes that would win his affections.

Here is one of the better ones:

September 14, 1995

1. More dresses
2. Less eyeliner
3. No ripped fishnets (regular are okay)
4. Avoid Jaegermeister
5. Keep combat boots clean, wear ONLY with pants
7. Consider underwear
8. Swallow


Amazing how it was imperative to me to keep my combat boots clean, yet only consider the possibility of wearing underwear.

Thirteen years later and I still don't think I have been able to accomplish any of the above.

Things You Shouldn't Do # 43

I hate bad grammar and have a low tolerance for bad spelling.

Bad typing is okay, as I am probably the world’s worst offender (generally my brilliance distracts me from the more technical aspects of blogging, such as hitting the keys squarely)

But bad vernacular is deplorable.

Case in point: Mix Tape

This sticky point seems to be the most problematic for those under 30, so for their sake (and mine) I will elaborate.

A Mixed Tape (or CD for that matter) is a portable collection of music that has been assembled by a person for later enjoyment. A collection, if you will.

And while all of the songs on the device could be considered a “mix” of music, the end result of mixing many things together is that, upon completion, the content has been “mixed.”

Do you see how that works?

If you mix many things together, they will invariably be “mixed”

Once they have been mixed, the end result cannot be anything other than what it has become - hence the term “mixed tape.”

Once could say “I made a mix and put it on a tape” or “I put of mix of songs on here for you” – but at the end of the day, the tape (or CD) itself will indeed have been mixed.

Say it with me: M-i-x-e-d T-a-p-e.

There, I knew you could do it.

Things You Shouldn't Do #6

Never look a gift horse in the mouth.

Let sleeping dogs lie.

Don't throw the baby out with the bathwater.

There are a myriad of "common sense" cliches that have, undoubtedly, evolved as the direct result of human stupidity.

Although there may be no such thing as a gift horse, some dumb ass invariably looked into its mouth, and learned a valuable lesson.

Here's a new one for the cliche book, as well as an illustrated history of its evolution.

Ready?

Dont be a cunt in the grocery store.

Centuries from now when grocery stores no longer exist, yet people find themselves touting this "lesson" in common conversation (so ingrained in contemporary vernacular it will be!) they will be empowered by the wisdom of the ages.

For your reference, I have added a "Going Forward" and "Suggested Uses" section to help you to incorporate this nugget into your daily life.

Inception:
Shopping at No Frills on a Saturday is a complete and total shitshow, yet I continue to do it because I like to do other things on Saturday. Of course I could go to another grocery store chain, but my husband is infernally cheap, and has an aneuryism if I come home with bags from one of those "expensive" grocery stores. You know, like Dominion.

The store is packed to the rafters. People are cart to ass, and people are taking turns in the pasta sauce aisle. The entire bread section has been depleted, rows of empty shelves attest to earlier riots.

I do my shop. It takes ages, especially because I forgot apples and had to return to the produce department after having made it (more or less safely) to the dairy section without incident. Fuck.

The line ups are long. Thankfully all of the cashiers are open, albeit grouchy. I grab my apples and make a break for a line that is only about 5 deep. Some of the other lines appear to be 10-15 people deep. I got lucky.

Upon my arrival in line, I note a handbasket on the floor. The basket of goods has been placed behind the gentleman who is ahead of me in line. When we all inch forward a little, I take my foot and scoot the basket forward asking the man ahead of me "Is this yours?"

He replies that it belongs to a woman who left it there. Assuming this woman is a good citizen who simply forgot to get peanut butter and dashed off to get some, I kept moving this unseen woman's basket ahead with every inch I moved forward. It seemed like the right thing to do. But she had been gone for a while.

The very next moment, this tiny woman comes barelling out of nowhere, her arms full of produce. She literally runs up to the basket, dumps her load of veggies into it, and then darts off again.

She is still shopping.

As we inch forward again, I ask the guy ahead of me "What shoud I do?" "Fuck her!" he says. I agree, and I use my foot to move her basket to the side of the aisle, easing my cart into the basket's former space.

Then, from out of nowhere, she emerges (arms full of cereal, juice and laundry detergent, meaning she visited multiple aisles on her sojourn!) and runs directly toward me. Her eyes enraged, she stops dead about an inch away from me and starts yelling in (I think) Chinese while pointing to the spot on the floor where her basket used to be.

I explain (in English) that I had been pushing her basket forward for her for about five minutes, but since she clearly still had some shopping to do, it was inappropriate for her to expect her basket to hold her place.

She glared at me as the gent ahead of us began to load his items onto the conveyor belt. In a few moments, one of us would go next.

When space became available on the belt, she made a move to dart around me and place some items in the queue. Fortunately, I am bigger and taller, and in a bold move I reached over her and staked my claim with a package of vegetarian wieners. Victory was mine. :

The Future:
Going forward, I think that Dont Be a Cunt at the Grocery Store is a wonderful way of saying "Don't take what isn't yours."

Suggested Uses:

A husband, who is already in shit with his wife for being a bad communicator, decides to go out with friends after work and arrives home drunk at 2am. After pissing on the toilet seat and neglegting to wipe it up, he makes his way to bed (and his sleeping wife) and attempt to initiate sex. Don't be a cunt in the grocery store!

The Soul of My Suit

Ive spent the past week and a half obsessing over Marc Bolan - poring over YouTube and consuming every snippet of video, every documentary, every newsreel about the fateful crash.

At first it seemed a weird renaissance - "Dear, I've fallen in love with T.Rex all over again!"

Repeated playings of "Raw Ramp" seemed novel at first.

But it's been a week. A hell of a week.

Why Marc? Why now?

Marc Bolan was the sole reason for my existence between the ages of, say, 15 and 17.

Those of us who truly enjoy the aural pleasures experience a journey, and Marc was a big part of mine. Bolan, like the Ramones, gave me the confidence to just be me, and made it evident that being "different" was more than just okay, it was desirable; a thing of beauty and pride.

But that was over 20 years ago, and while I have always carried a fond appreciation for Marc and his music with me over the years. Sure, I had, over time, moved on to other things, other people and places in my life. Old goals were replaced with new ones, which, once attained, were replaced with even more. Looking back on it now, a lot of those goals were never even my own - they were more or less obstacles placed before me that I felt challenged to overcome. And so it went; a life, a career, a marriage - all presented to me and chosen out of assumed desire, and perhaps a little cowardice.

Funnily enough, I pride myself on all that I have accomplished in the face of perceived adversity.

Left home too young.

Sometimes used food stamps to eat.

Sold drugs to pay for school.

Started at the company answering the phone.

All of these things can be ticked off on my imaginary report card and quoted as the battles I won in order to be where I am today.

Strangely, I recite them all with pride, perhaps a little too enthusiastically so that those who know me will also be fooled into beleiving of the passion of my convictions.

I fought so hard for these things.

Didn't I?

Or did I choose the easy way? Did I choose only to fight for the things that were placed in front of me - dangled like a proverbial carrot - yet always well within arm's reach? Did I ever really go after what I truly wanted? Did I ever have the balls to acknkowledge that "good" isn't good enough?

No, I didnt.

The hard way would have been walking away. Choosing not to pursue a career that was clearly mapped out for me - the only thing I ever did to earn it was bust my ass for close to 10 years "proving" myself to other people. Stupidly, I felt a small victory every time I was rewarded with a morsel of praise and small bump in salary. Christ, I should have mourned each promotion for the hollow victory it was, and the vauable years blindly given to acheive it. How did I not see that every progression moved me further away from where I want to be as a person?

I just want to do something that makes me happy and has purpose and meaning. I want to do something that changes the world for one person, even if that one person is me.


But here I am, a mere two weeks away from my 36th birthday; my professional and personal lives are nothing short of a disaster, and I somehow have a real need to connect with something other than the reality of where I am now.

Am I really so fucking cliched that I am turning to the music of my youth in a vain attempt to recapture it somehow?

God, I had hoped I was more complicated than that.

I always thought that my love of music, specifically the foundations of my collection stemmed from a sort of similarity between myself and the music I loved. I always thought that it mattered so much to me because each record was like a little vinyl snapshot of a fragment of my person - captured far more elegantly and eloquently than I ever could have done - and spewn back out at me in a way that allowed me to pick and choose who I wanted to be that week, that day, that hour or even that moment.

A robust collection made it possible to sort of take all the messy pieces of myself and spread them across the floor to be enjoyed at my discretion. Rather than having to deal with all of myself at any given time, I could use Bolan or Bowie (for example) to channel the greatness I was sure lurked inside of me somewhere and broadcast it to the world.

I guess I feel a little disappointed in myself because I sought out some very special artists, and used them to change my life and then I did absolutely nothing with it. At the end of the day, I feel like a collector of books who covets first editions and then sells them on eBay.
I have devalued the very thing that I love through my inability to make it relevant to my life.

Never mind the pretentious dust sleeves.

I chose the path of least resistance.

Me, of all people.

Bolan changed my life for the better 15 years after he died.

His entire contribution to music was less than a decade.

Yet my eyes well up with tears when I see the homeless, and I do nothing about it.

In life and in work, I've continuously chosen the pre-packaged option placed before me rather than done the work and taken the chances and had the balls to love who I love, and be who I am and do what I want to do.

And I have made all of these choices out of fear.

Fear of failure, fear of abandonment, fear of letting go of who I want others to think I am, and fear of being who I really am. Maybe I thought that acting out the charade would be a good diversion from the truth; certainly no one ever expected me to be so "successful" on their terms, and maybe I thought it would be punk rock of me to become something I never thought I could be. Maybe something in me felt the need to be "normal' in order to be different. Maybe I needed to go through the stages of it all in order to know what I don't want. Whatever the reason, whatever the logic, I am here in it now and wondering how the hell it happened to me.

The good news is that the answers are out there, and probably not contained in anything known as "The Secret" - I just have to start looking again for that source of inspiration, and suspect it's buried in a stack of vinyl somewhere in the basement. And there may be a few beers involved.

What you Didn't Know About Marc Bolan (Damn You, Britain!)

British people, although I don't really know many, seem as a collective to be a very serious lot. By serious, I mean, they always have to take things to the extreme. They don't just have odd teeth, they have the kind of teeth that are the punchline to an evolutionary joke.

They don't simply enjoy going for a drink with friends; they have an entire culture centred around this very act and a have spawned a distinct, albeit bland, cuisine to accomany it.

Among their more admirable qualities is their pride of ownership when it comes to music. Sure, the Eagles may be the biggest selling band in US history - and managed to somehow accomplish this with only one album - but the Britons have a way of always being better at embracing thier own popular culture. Case in point: People are not spending thousands on eBay for "Eaglemania" memorabilia.

Even when it comes to punk rock - arguably an American art form - the Brits, again , did it better; manufacturing their own one record wonder - the Sex Pistols. Sure, Elvis changed the world - but Sid fucking killed fucking Nancy with a fucking hunting knife in New York fucking City. Gutted her like a fish.

You see where this is headed....

T. Rextasy was a little blip on the British cultural map shorlty after I was born. I didnt know (or care to know) who T.Rex was until I was around 14 years old. I stumbled across a movie called "Alice Doesnt Live Here Anymore" on a local television station and watched it for no real reason, except, perhaps, that it was on and I couldn't be bothered the change the channel. Legend has in that the movie was the "inspiration" for the mid 80's sitcom hit "Alice" but that's probably (mostly) irrelevant.

Near the end of the movie was a scene where Troubled Stepson flees to his room and plays some defiantly loud rock music on his hi-fi - the universal sign for "Fuck you!'

Door opens: Enter Stepfather who snatches LP from the hi fi and flings it across the room. The LP hits the wall and falls in fragments on the shag carpeting.

Troubed Stepson turns around to face Stepfather. A slow rage spreads across his face

Anger. Accusation. Hurt. The truth blurted in rage. A dysfunctional family moment revealed. Troubled Stepson sobs and falls into Stepfather's arms.

Unity at last.

Fade to black.

Anyways, in the 4.5 seconds that the kid actually got to listen to his record before being rudely interrupted, there was this amazing sound. Just a glimmer, really, of something magnificent.

I watched the rest of the movie, and sat right in front of the tv as the credits rolled; finally the soundtrack credits rolled and there it was, the name of the band.

The next day I took the bus to the record store (except I listened to tapes then, after all, I had a Sports Walkman!) and bought "T.Rextasy." The song I heard the day before turned out to be "Jeepster" and there began and long and torrid love affair with the brilliance of Marc Bolan.

Bolan was an odd sex symbol (especially for me as he was long dead by the time I discovered him at the ripe old age of 15) but listening to his music it was really easy to "get" why he was such a massive star, and how he was able to drastically alter the face of popular cullture and define a genre.

Firstly, he was attractive - but not too attractive. He wasn't threateningly attractive, so in that respect, men werent violently opposed to the idea of him. You think I am kidding? Ask any guy in 1987 what he thought of Bret Michaels of Poison and he would say "The guy's a fag!" - but the actual problem with Bret (as far as men were concerned) is that he was just too good looking. Those of you who have seen the VH1 Behind the Music episode on Poison know that Bret is a lot of things, but he is definitely not a fag. Think of it from an evolutionary standpoint and you will understand why men want to throw (circa 1987) Bret Michaels from the cave. More Bret = less pussy.

But I digress....

Marc Bolan was a likeable chap - brilliant to be sure, but the thing about Marc was he oozed this coy sexuality and wrapped it in a sort of mystical elfish package. For example, if Marc stole your girfriend it would be an accident - and altogether her fault.

His was a sneaky, sexy dirtiness - not a blatant cum in your face and tell all his friends about it over a round of Guinness guy. Men probably felt a little sorry for him -being a wuss and all - and women liked him because he looked the type to have a big plush bed with lots of pillows and enjoyed a good cuddle.

"Just like a car, you're pleasing to behold. Ill call you 'Jaguar' if I may be so bold..."

Gems like this were a little dirty and a little nerdy. Bolan's penchant for making disposable music is the very thing that made it last. In order to be short and sweet it had to be succinct, and from the reduction came pure brilliance. This very line has fuelled my fascination with womens bodies and automobiles (together and separately) for the past two decades.

Bolan wasn't Bowie, to be sure. But it was Bolan who introduced "glitter" to rock. and wherease Bowie is a once in a lifetime artist, Bolan was the best of the moment artist who changed a hell of a lot in the very short time that he made music.

I've always fancied mysef a bit of a Bolan officionado, but (thanks to YouTube) must admit there is a heck of a lot that I didn't know about the man. For example, I did not know that the kiddie show "Sigmund the Sea Monster" was inspired by the heat-seeking mammal inhabiting Marc's trousers.

T.Rextasy, indeed!