Normally, I don't like to post recipes here, but I have been cooking a lot lately. As such, I have been eating fairly well. Today I ate like cabbages and kings.
My breakfast and lunch consisted of leftover Pulled BBQ Chicken and Asian Black Rice Salad. It was delish. I haven't got a whole lot to say, so I'm just going to share the recipes with you since this is the return of the FFFA and I can do what I please.
Uranium J's Black Rice Salad
2 cups Black Rice
1 red bell pepper
1 yellow bell pepper
1 green bell pepper
Juice of 1 lime
2 tbsp Tamari
1 tbsp Sesame Oil
10 green onions
Fresh Cilantro to taste
1 cooked Sweet Potatoe
Salt and Pepper to taste
Cook the rice according to package directions. Allow to cook fully. Slice Peppers into small cubes. Chop onion and cilantro. Cube sweet potato. Mix wet ingredients in large bowl. Add Rice and Veggies. Toss to mix well. Add salt and pepper. Eat immediately or refrigerate.
Pulled BBQ Chicken
2-6 lbs boneless skinless chicken breast
Favorite BBQ sauce
4 onions
Chop onions. Put in bottom of slow cooker. Add Chicken Breasts. Cover in BBQ Sauce. Cook on low until Chicken is fully cooked and pulls apart with a fork. Shred chicken. Turn off heat. Eat with more BBQ Sauce.
*If you cook the chicken too long (like overnight) it will become very dry and grainy. Not so good. I imagine if you started it in the morning and turned it off after work that it would be fine.
If you can't find the black rice, I bet wild or brown rice and it would work. Black rice, so I am told is a really good whole grain and it is sticky and sweet and good. It has kind of a purple color when cooked which is said to stain cookware. I suggest using stainless or nonstick pots to avoid this. I have no idea if it will stain my clear plastic bowl that I mixed everything up in, but once I've devoured all of it I will let you know.
Happy Cooking!
Friday, June 29, 2012
Sunday, June 24, 2012
Looking for God in All the Wrong Places
I had music running nonstop in my room from 1995 until I moved out for college. Every moment in his arms had a soundtrack. j^C doesn’t know why The Wedding Album is so important to me. It got me through marching season, the aftermath of losing my dad, and more afternoons in bed with Denial than I can remember. Duran Duran was the background noise of days when I left him light headed because we had kissed so long that I forgot to breathe.
When he was a loving God, he was amazing. It was nothing for me to reach into his pants and fondle him. I miss that. I miss the innocence of it – the thrill. It’s nothing to do that to your husband when you are 25, but to your boyfriend when you are 12, it’s like riding a roller coaster.
Everything that we did together was a rush. I used to drive him insane toward the end lamenting the loss of “electric butterflies” – the feeling that I used to get when we were together. I found the butterflies again in the game I play with him – In my idol worship.
When I play roulette and drive by his house hoping to see him and dreading the prospect at the same time my stomach turns to delicious knots and I don’t know whether I want to fly or to puke or both. I don’t know if I really want to see him or hope that I don’t – most of the time I don’t know what I’m looking for and I don’t know what I would do if I were face to face with him again anyway.
What do you say to God? You stutter and sputter and fall on your knees in awe, in fear, in praise of his glory. You are struck dumb, you are weak, you are helpless, and he is the almighty father, your salvation wrapped up in second hand clothes and sporting an unkempt beard.
But that’s alright because despite his humble appearance you can see the magnificence that he is. The beauty, the power, and the love. You crave just one more moment of that love. One more touch of that hand.
I would love to bow my head just to feel his fingers in my hair once more. I would close my eyes so as not to go blind just to feel his lips brush my cheek once more. I yearn for his grace. I need to know that my God of flesh and blood still loves me.
I have sinned and fallen short of his Glory. I need him to pick me up, and dust me off, and to tell me that it’s alright, that he understands, that he’s not mad, and that he loves me. I want him to love me back.
And so I pray. I think about him far more than I should. I compose letters in my head that I am too afraid to write down, much less send. I wear a psychological hair shirt under my façade of being put together and under control. When no one is listening, I cry and I berate myself, my words stinging my heart and pricking my eyes like the burs of a flagellant’s whip.
In my mind, I crawl over broken glass to the shrine I’ve built in the deepest part of my subconscious. When I dream, it’s always an apology and his forgiveness, and his kiss, and my guilt at betraying my husband and at how good it feels to be in his arms again at last. And when I wake I am torn apart and I do penance for days.
“Forgive me for my psychological infidelity to my husband – Forgive me for this, and for every wrong I ever did you. Forgive me. Love me. Give me back the keys to the kingdom of your heart. Love me. Think of me fondly. Remember me. Bear me no ill will. Love me. Love me. Love me back."
When he was a loving God, he was amazing. It was nothing for me to reach into his pants and fondle him. I miss that. I miss the innocence of it – the thrill. It’s nothing to do that to your husband when you are 25, but to your boyfriend when you are 12, it’s like riding a roller coaster.
Everything that we did together was a rush. I used to drive him insane toward the end lamenting the loss of “electric butterflies” – the feeling that I used to get when we were together. I found the butterflies again in the game I play with him – In my idol worship.
When I play roulette and drive by his house hoping to see him and dreading the prospect at the same time my stomach turns to delicious knots and I don’t know whether I want to fly or to puke or both. I don’t know if I really want to see him or hope that I don’t – most of the time I don’t know what I’m looking for and I don’t know what I would do if I were face to face with him again anyway.
What do you say to God? You stutter and sputter and fall on your knees in awe, in fear, in praise of his glory. You are struck dumb, you are weak, you are helpless, and he is the almighty father, your salvation wrapped up in second hand clothes and sporting an unkempt beard.
But that’s alright because despite his humble appearance you can see the magnificence that he is. The beauty, the power, and the love. You crave just one more moment of that love. One more touch of that hand.
I would love to bow my head just to feel his fingers in my hair once more. I would close my eyes so as not to go blind just to feel his lips brush my cheek once more. I yearn for his grace. I need to know that my God of flesh and blood still loves me.
I have sinned and fallen short of his Glory. I need him to pick me up, and dust me off, and to tell me that it’s alright, that he understands, that he’s not mad, and that he loves me. I want him to love me back.
And so I pray. I think about him far more than I should. I compose letters in my head that I am too afraid to write down, much less send. I wear a psychological hair shirt under my façade of being put together and under control. When no one is listening, I cry and I berate myself, my words stinging my heart and pricking my eyes like the burs of a flagellant’s whip.
In my mind, I crawl over broken glass to the shrine I’ve built in the deepest part of my subconscious. When I dream, it’s always an apology and his forgiveness, and his kiss, and my guilt at betraying my husband and at how good it feels to be in his arms again at last. And when I wake I am torn apart and I do penance for days.
“Forgive me for my psychological infidelity to my husband – Forgive me for this, and for every wrong I ever did you. Forgive me. Love me. Give me back the keys to the kingdom of your heart. Love me. Think of me fondly. Remember me. Bear me no ill will. Love me. Love me. Love me back."
Friday, June 22, 2012
Chuck Logan and the Pic-N-Sav Fire
I always liked Chuck. He was really nice to me and was always very interested in what was going on in my life. He was sort of like an uncle or a grandfather. A godfather, maybe? But what he really was was my mom’s ex husband, so I heard a lot of unflattering things about him. I was always fair though and I was friendly with him up until the day he died when I was 18. He never did me wrong, so I saw no reason to be hateful, and anyway, he was this sister person’s dad, so I had to like him, right?
Alicia and Chuck were prominent periphery figures in my early childhood. I maintain that I was an only child, because I was raised as such, but that’s not the case on paper.
My whole childhood, up until sometime several years after my dad died, Chuck had this tannish/orangish car. It was a huge, long thing that had to have been from the late 60’s or early 70’s. The paint had no sheen to it at all, it was rusting, the seats were falling apart, there was no AC, it stunk like stale cigarette smoke, and as long as I can remember the thing would not drive in reverse. This necessitated them parking it in such a way that they could always pull out. You can imagine what that looked like in a parking lot – always on the outer edges parked horizontally when everyone else was vertically parked in their own individual space. Oh, and it had a fire truck twirly light on the dash, and firefighter plates. He was a volunteer firefighter.
My mom more of less thought that his firefighting was a joke, but I thought it was pretty cool – right up to the moment my sister made me sacrifice my afternoon cartoons to watch Backdraft. For most of my life, Chuck was a fire station mascot – but I do remember his big moment of Glory – The Pic-n-Sav fire. It was an electrical fire they said, and it was literally across the street from the fire station. It was the biggest thing to happen in Crescent City in years. Not much has happened since either . . .
I don’t know why we were in Crescent City that day, and I can’t help but imagine that someone called my mom and we went up there to be voyeurs. I can remember standing with my mom and my sister in front of Peacock’s Furniture (our favorite spot for watching the Catfish Festival parade, and Chuck’s place of employment) and watching the flames coming out of the windows and the roof. Apparently the fire hadn’t spread to the whole building by the time we got there. As we watched in awe we began to hear tiny explosions that sounded like fire crackers or bottle rockets. Everyone standing on the street began to wonder if the whole building would blow and whether or not we should all run for cover. Then, a very smart bystander suggested that the fire had reached the aerosol cans of hairspray.
There were more fire trucks than I had ever seen in my life (which wasn’t very long at this point). The fire was so big and out of control that they had called in fire stations from all the surrounding communities to help. And in the middle of it all was Chuck. He was brave. He went in and fought that fire as best he could, but like so many of the firemen, he finally had to call it quits from heat exhaustion and smoke inhalation. I think it was the last fire he helped to fight. He still rode rescue, but after that I think he hung up his boots. What a way to retire – in the biggest fire our town had ever had.
Alicia and Chuck were prominent periphery figures in my early childhood. I maintain that I was an only child, because I was raised as such, but that’s not the case on paper.
My whole childhood, up until sometime several years after my dad died, Chuck had this tannish/orangish car. It was a huge, long thing that had to have been from the late 60’s or early 70’s. The paint had no sheen to it at all, it was rusting, the seats were falling apart, there was no AC, it stunk like stale cigarette smoke, and as long as I can remember the thing would not drive in reverse. This necessitated them parking it in such a way that they could always pull out. You can imagine what that looked like in a parking lot – always on the outer edges parked horizontally when everyone else was vertically parked in their own individual space. Oh, and it had a fire truck twirly light on the dash, and firefighter plates. He was a volunteer firefighter.
My mom more of less thought that his firefighting was a joke, but I thought it was pretty cool – right up to the moment my sister made me sacrifice my afternoon cartoons to watch Backdraft. For most of my life, Chuck was a fire station mascot – but I do remember his big moment of Glory – The Pic-n-Sav fire. It was an electrical fire they said, and it was literally across the street from the fire station. It was the biggest thing to happen in Crescent City in years. Not much has happened since either . . .
I don’t know why we were in Crescent City that day, and I can’t help but imagine that someone called my mom and we went up there to be voyeurs. I can remember standing with my mom and my sister in front of Peacock’s Furniture (our favorite spot for watching the Catfish Festival parade, and Chuck’s place of employment) and watching the flames coming out of the windows and the roof. Apparently the fire hadn’t spread to the whole building by the time we got there. As we watched in awe we began to hear tiny explosions that sounded like fire crackers or bottle rockets. Everyone standing on the street began to wonder if the whole building would blow and whether or not we should all run for cover. Then, a very smart bystander suggested that the fire had reached the aerosol cans of hairspray.
There were more fire trucks than I had ever seen in my life (which wasn’t very long at this point). The fire was so big and out of control that they had called in fire stations from all the surrounding communities to help. And in the middle of it all was Chuck. He was brave. He went in and fought that fire as best he could, but like so many of the firemen, he finally had to call it quits from heat exhaustion and smoke inhalation. I think it was the last fire he helped to fight. He still rode rescue, but after that I think he hung up his boots. What a way to retire – in the biggest fire our town had ever had.
Tuesday, June 19, 2012
I'm thinking of calling it quits
I have nothing to say today and I have been struggling for the better part of the last hour to get this entry written, so this is going to be short and sweet.
Have any of you heard this dreck "We Are Young" from the band Fun.? Am I the only one who is appalled by this garbage? See the lyrics.
Since when was it okay to beat on your woman or otherwise give her a scar because you are young? Now, perhaps this scar was a result of a night of drunken carousing. If so, then I guess the scar thing would be OK Though judging by the references to apologies and what not, I'm guessing this was a violence related scar, in which case I cannot understand why there's not rioting in the streets over this song. People get up in arms over rap songs depicting violence toward women, but it would seem that white hipster douchebags can beat on their women and that's copacetic. No foul. It's cool bro.
With this development and many other examples of societal de-evolution, I am ready to quit the human race. I don't like the road we're heading down. There are people tweeting "Who was Rodney King?", "The Titanic was real?" and "Who the fuck is Paul McCartney?" and I think it's time for me to move along.
Surely there are greener, more intelligent, less hypocritical pastures out there. They say the whole world hates America - I'll bet the whole universe hates Earth. I hope I'm not around when we finally make contact. I imagine it's going to be like The Day the Earth Stood Still except we aren't going to convince Klaatu and Gort that our civilization is worth sparing.
Have any of you heard this dreck "We Are Young" from the band Fun.? Am I the only one who is appalled by this garbage? See the lyrics.
Since when was it okay to beat on your woman or otherwise give her a scar because you are young? Now, perhaps this scar was a result of a night of drunken carousing. If so, then I guess the scar thing would be OK Though judging by the references to apologies and what not, I'm guessing this was a violence related scar, in which case I cannot understand why there's not rioting in the streets over this song. People get up in arms over rap songs depicting violence toward women, but it would seem that white hipster douchebags can beat on their women and that's copacetic. No foul. It's cool bro.
With this development and many other examples of societal de-evolution, I am ready to quit the human race. I don't like the road we're heading down. There are people tweeting "Who was Rodney King?", "The Titanic was real?" and "Who the fuck is Paul McCartney?" and I think it's time for me to move along.
Surely there are greener, more intelligent, less hypocritical pastures out there. They say the whole world hates America - I'll bet the whole universe hates Earth. I hope I'm not around when we finally make contact. I imagine it's going to be like The Day the Earth Stood Still except we aren't going to convince Klaatu and Gort that our civilization is worth sparing.
 |
| God said "On second thought, maybeI should'a given it all to the monkeys." Maybe it's not too late. Source |
Sunday, June 17, 2012
Oh Be Joyful, Cus That Shit Spreads . . .
Since my insurance seems to be working against psychotherapy at the moment, I've taken it upon myself to make a conscious and mindful effort at creating and maintaining some happiness in my life. The first step of this has been to more or less banish downer music from my listening repertoire. That sounds like a simple thing, but if you were to look at my Media Player, you would see that I have more songs in the key of G minor than otherwise. I like sad songs. Elton John knew what he was talking about when he sang "sad songs say so much". A sucker for the intellectual and the thought provoking, I love music with a story and engaging lyrics. Those stories, unfortunately, tend to be downers, if not specifically in lyrical content, then in tempo or chord structure.
 |
| Michigan J. Frog - Spreading Joy 1955-2005 Source |
That said, I'm currently listening to a playlist of mid to late 90s boy bands, feminist empowerment rock, and "upbeat" heavy metal. Don't ask me what that is exactly. There's no definition. The best example I can give you is Godsmack's "Whatever". Also, there's a fair share of dance music and rap. Despite the fact that rap music can have some pretty harrowing words, you just can't be sad with a good beat. Basically, I am listening to whatever makes me want to sing and dance. They say you gotta find your bliss; well, mine is music, so I'm using that to my advantage.
In my quest to help myself, I've given some real thought to what truly makes me happy and I've come to the conclusion that it's a pretty short list;
- Food
- Friends
- Family
- Writing
- Music
- Animals
This brings me to the part about thinking outside of the box. I want to be a writer, right? The problem has been that I can't think of anything to write about. I've been trying to write novels and short stories - trying to tap into what's hot in the off chance that I could ride this or that wave to publication. In so doing, I broke the cardinal rule: "To thine own self be true". I haven't been able to find my voice because the stories I've been trying to write don't move me. I was trying to write someone else's story while passing it off as my own.
Today, it hit me - What's my story? What do I love? Cooking, food, friends, family, writing. Why wasn't I writing about food, cooking, friends, and family. I came home as fast as I could and started brainstorming - at the moment I have over 60 story ideas involving food and my friends and family. It makes sense, historically the table has been a gathering place. If you read the Bible or Beowulf, people are eating and telling stories. I can't say that I'm going to be able to develop all of these stories, but I've got something more to work with than I've had in a really long time. These are stories that I want to tell. They're stories that aren't sad, bittersweet, or otherwise painful. They are funny, poignant, and full of life and joy.
I am so excited about this, you guys! I can't wait to see what's going to come of it. I hope this is the start of an upswing for me. As for you guys, what's your bliss? Find it - share it. Oh! Be joyful! Cus shit spreads.
Friday, June 15, 2012
Under Pressure
I have been having some troubles as of late. Specifically, I have re-developed some major issues with anxiety. I've been having panic attacks more frequently than I would like, as well as outbursts of pure blind rage and moments of paralyzing fear. All of these symptoms have been triggered by both serious and banal moments of day to day living. As such, I've been kind of a scary person to be around and I fear that my relationships with my husband and daughter are suffering.
After a night of completely erratic behavior I decided it was time to see a doctor about this. I don't care much for doctors. Now, I am taking a daily "sleeping pill" and a certain well known member of the "Benny" family on an as needed basis. I was also referred to a psychiatrist for further treatment, but due to hangups with my insurance, that's still up in the air. By the by, I vote that they outlaw insurance entirely. It will force medical care prices to go down because without insurance no one could afford to see a doctor. So, either they would lower their prices or we would all die, and I doubt they'd let that happen.
So far, the "sleeping pill" has been helping a little, but not as much as I would like. I never feel rested during the day and I think that my panic attacks have found their way into my dreams. Last night I dreamed that I had not graduated high school, even though I had my B.A. For some reason, I had been going to two of my classes regularly, two of them sporadically, and the last two I had not attended in months. The school year was coming to a close and I had "F"s in the two classes I had been skipping. I was panicking about not being able to graduate. I was running around the school trying to figure out what I was going to do when I decided I would talk to one of my teachers about it. My guidance counselor had recently retired, so there was no one else for me to talk to.
I found Mr. Izzard in his classroom, very angrily grading papers with his pet goose sitting on his desk. It was grey and it bit me on the nose. He was very irritated that I had come to see him after school on a Friday. I asked him if he wanted me to help him grade papers, but he declined my offer. I was getting ready to leave, feeling very rejected, and then I woke up.
What's my point? Clearly, I am dealing with a lot of feelings of failure and rejection which are either exacerbating or being exacerbated by this anxiety and panic issue. Why? I don't know. It should be noted that I've had this not finishing high school dream several times now - it seems as though it may have replaced the "Guilt/Dead Body" dream. I don't know what I can do to solve this issue, but I do know that it would help if the smallest things didn't cause me to literally quake with fear.
Seriously. I was making dinner last night and the whole time I was shaking, fighting to stave of a debilitating panic attack, fighting the urge to scream at my child, fighting to stay in control. I'm not particularly proud of the fact that I now know that Crystal Light Fruit Punch and Tanqueray go well together, but in a moment of weakness I sought any solace I could readily grab a hold of. It didn't help.
Right now, I am working toward applying for Graduate School in Fall 2013. This means I need to take the GRE and pass it sometime soon, as well as get my other affairs in order. I find myself wondering, if I can't cope with daily life right now, how am I ever going to get into Grad School, much less manage to stay there?
On the one hand, I feel like it would do wonders for my self esteem if I could make something of myself in Graduate School, but on the other hand, I feel like it would kill me to blow it in the same way I feel like I've blown every other major life goal I've ever had. I really need some success to tuck into my hatband, but I'm so shellshocked by failure that maybe I'm too scared to even try.
Being afraid sucks. How I envy the fearless among us. Live fast, die young, leave a good looking corpse is a whole lot better than Live in fear, die old, leave a lot of regrets.
After a night of completely erratic behavior I decided it was time to see a doctor about this. I don't care much for doctors. Now, I am taking a daily "sleeping pill" and a certain well known member of the "Benny" family on an as needed basis. I was also referred to a psychiatrist for further treatment, but due to hangups with my insurance, that's still up in the air. By the by, I vote that they outlaw insurance entirely. It will force medical care prices to go down because without insurance no one could afford to see a doctor. So, either they would lower their prices or we would all die, and I doubt they'd let that happen.
So far, the "sleeping pill" has been helping a little, but not as much as I would like. I never feel rested during the day and I think that my panic attacks have found their way into my dreams. Last night I dreamed that I had not graduated high school, even though I had my B.A. For some reason, I had been going to two of my classes regularly, two of them sporadically, and the last two I had not attended in months. The school year was coming to a close and I had "F"s in the two classes I had been skipping. I was panicking about not being able to graduate. I was running around the school trying to figure out what I was going to do when I decided I would talk to one of my teachers about it. My guidance counselor had recently retired, so there was no one else for me to talk to.
I found Mr. Izzard in his classroom, very angrily grading papers with his pet goose sitting on his desk. It was grey and it bit me on the nose. He was very irritated that I had come to see him after school on a Friday. I asked him if he wanted me to help him grade papers, but he declined my offer. I was getting ready to leave, feeling very rejected, and then I woke up.
 |
| This is ourselves - under pressure. Source |
Seriously. I was making dinner last night and the whole time I was shaking, fighting to stave of a debilitating panic attack, fighting the urge to scream at my child, fighting to stay in control. I'm not particularly proud of the fact that I now know that Crystal Light Fruit Punch and Tanqueray go well together, but in a moment of weakness I sought any solace I could readily grab a hold of. It didn't help.
Right now, I am working toward applying for Graduate School in Fall 2013. This means I need to take the GRE and pass it sometime soon, as well as get my other affairs in order. I find myself wondering, if I can't cope with daily life right now, how am I ever going to get into Grad School, much less manage to stay there?
On the one hand, I feel like it would do wonders for my self esteem if I could make something of myself in Graduate School, but on the other hand, I feel like it would kill me to blow it in the same way I feel like I've blown every other major life goal I've ever had. I really need some success to tuck into my hatband, but I'm so shellshocked by failure that maybe I'm too scared to even try.
Being afraid sucks. How I envy the fearless among us. Live fast, die young, leave a good looking corpse is a whole lot better than Live in fear, die old, leave a lot of regrets.
Tuesday, June 12, 2012
She Makes Me Nervous
I have just finished installing a new doorknob on my bedroom door. It has a lock and key. Now, perhaps I can keep That Sprout out of mischief. She's got full run of the common areas and her bedroom. It was getting a little old trying to keep her out of trouble in my room and baby gates are about to be obsolete. She's a real climber now.
It took me almost an hour to install this new piece of hardware because A) The instructions were garbage, B) I've never replaced a doorknob before, and C) It required more finesse than know-how anyway.
It probably didn't help matters that in the middle of the installation I started thinking about Laura Kuhn. I don't know why it happened - I was one screw away from having the doorknob improperly fitted (the first time) when I dropped the screwdriver to the floor with the last screw and went to the computer to google her. I found a series of websites under her brand Midnight Boheme, but no news from her world as to what she might be doing nowadays.
The last time I saw her was at Catfish Festival 2010. I had just found out that I was pregnant and I wasn't taking the news very well. After listening to the gospel sing in the park and falling to pieces I found myself at The Parker House drinking diet coke while everyone else got wasted. To say it was awkward would be an understatement. j^C was already on the Magical Mystery Tour and I was getting the feeling all my old schoolmates thought he was a figment of my imagination.
After an hour or so of awkward conversations and hanging out with people who were my mother's age I honed in on a young man who looked as out of place as I felt. Having never met a stranger, I went over and struck up a conversation with him. He was not a local, but married to one. When his wife arrived she hugged me and talked to me as though we were old friends. I was aghast. She was in the class of 99. How did she remember me? Even more shocking - Laura remembered me.
As a 7th grade student at CCJSHS, Laura Kuhn was my hero. I wanted to be just like her, although I doubt anyone really knew that at the time. Over the years I had voyueristically kept up with her. I went to see the Tim Burton Planet of the Apes just because I heard she'd done some makeup work in it. I stalked her MySpace back when that was a thing. I may have even thought about contacting her from time to time. I never did because why would she want to talk to the likes of me? She was a successful artist - a writer - a bohemian - and fucking beautiful. All the things I wanted to be. All the things I still want to be.
Imagine my shock when she began chatting me up that night. I was Moses up on the mountain listening to the voice of God. I was reverent and attentive to every word that passes from her ruby lips, every look from her painted eyes. She was a porcelain goddess glowing the night, the blue smoke from her cigarette circling her head like the halo transforming her into the icon she always was to me.
I should have called her the day after, but I was afraid. I still felt unworthy. I still feel unworthy. She makes me nervous. When I look at her work online, I feel just a little sick to my stomach. Just a little afraid. Maybe it's the fear of a mortal before God.
Or maybe it's the fear that if I seek too much, If I look too hard, the face she's prepared to meet the faces that she meets will shatter and fall to the floor, and behind it will be someone not unlike me. Someone who is afraid, disenchanted, alone, and entirely human.
We all need something to cling to, after all.
It took me almost an hour to install this new piece of hardware because A) The instructions were garbage, B) I've never replaced a doorknob before, and C) It required more finesse than know-how anyway.
It probably didn't help matters that in the middle of the installation I started thinking about Laura Kuhn. I don't know why it happened - I was one screw away from having the doorknob improperly fitted (the first time) when I dropped the screwdriver to the floor with the last screw and went to the computer to google her. I found a series of websites under her brand Midnight Boheme, but no news from her world as to what she might be doing nowadays.
 |
| Laura (Source) |
After an hour or so of awkward conversations and hanging out with people who were my mother's age I honed in on a young man who looked as out of place as I felt. Having never met a stranger, I went over and struck up a conversation with him. He was not a local, but married to one. When his wife arrived she hugged me and talked to me as though we were old friends. I was aghast. She was in the class of 99. How did she remember me? Even more shocking - Laura remembered me.
As a 7th grade student at CCJSHS, Laura Kuhn was my hero. I wanted to be just like her, although I doubt anyone really knew that at the time. Over the years I had voyueristically kept up with her. I went to see the Tim Burton Planet of the Apes just because I heard she'd done some makeup work in it. I stalked her MySpace back when that was a thing. I may have even thought about contacting her from time to time. I never did because why would she want to talk to the likes of me? She was a successful artist - a writer - a bohemian - and fucking beautiful. All the things I wanted to be. All the things I still want to be.
Imagine my shock when she began chatting me up that night. I was Moses up on the mountain listening to the voice of God. I was reverent and attentive to every word that passes from her ruby lips, every look from her painted eyes. She was a porcelain goddess glowing the night, the blue smoke from her cigarette circling her head like the halo transforming her into the icon she always was to me.
I should have called her the day after, but I was afraid. I still felt unworthy. I still feel unworthy. She makes me nervous. When I look at her work online, I feel just a little sick to my stomach. Just a little afraid. Maybe it's the fear of a mortal before God.
Or maybe it's the fear that if I seek too much, If I look too hard, the face she's prepared to meet the faces that she meets will shatter and fall to the floor, and behind it will be someone not unlike me. Someone who is afraid, disenchanted, alone, and entirely human.
We all need something to cling to, after all.
Sunday, June 10, 2012
How I Wound Up Briefly Driving A Badass Monte Carlo
I had been thinking for a while that I wanted a truck. I had a friend who drove this big GMC pickup and I thought it was really cool, and I could see the value of having a bed with which to haul things, so I started in on trying to convince her that a truck was the solution to my our problems. The Ford Focus was too low to the ground for the dirt road we lived on and a truck would have 4 wheel drive with which to navigate the road when it flooded, which it often did.
So, we went to the local Chevy dealership one Saturday morning after pancake breakfast to see what there was to see. I’m still not sure why I never even got to test drive a pickup. Maybe it was the sales person, or maybe my mom just wanted to try out the TrailBlazer. Maybe I wanted to drive it because I liked to color. I really don’t remember. At any rate, I got behind the wheel of a Burgundy 2003 Chevy TrailBlazer and was pretty awed. It had a 6 CD changer, a sun roof, leather seats, more room that any sensible person needed, and hydraulic seats. I was impressed, but I wasn’t sold. It didn’t have 4 wheel drive, which had been one of the main reasons I wanted a bigger vehicle, and it was really expensive. Regarding the 4x4, I was told that I didn’t need it because I was “a woman”. Yeah. Someone actually said that to me. And my mom didn’t immediately pack up and leave.
I really want to blame it on her, but the fact of the matter was, I needed new car before that Monday. I had already bought the tickets for the MCR show, but my mom wasn’t going to let me drive the Focus all that way because of the tires. I would like to add that my prime operative that Saturday was to consider some new modes of transport to think about, but to spend to $500 it would have taken to get brand new tires in time for the show. We wound up trading in the Focus – Sylvia, I had called her, after Sylvia Plath – for the TrailBlazer. My mom financed and stroked the check. We were to pick the truck up Monday morning, as they wanted to detail it.
Monday came, we went to get my new ride so I could head to Orlando, and it wasn’t there. Apparently, it had already been sold before I ever test drove it. We bought someone else’s car. We paid for someone else’s car. And the dealership had already cashed the check and sold my car. I was carless and I had to be in Orland by 7 that night. I was fucked. But so were they. They had broken the law and they were scrambling to make it right before we caught wise and called the cops. I was 18 and my only concern was how I was going to get to my damn show, and I said as much. They were willing to do anything to make us happy at that point, so they handed me the keys to a 2003 Monte Carlo. “It’s yours until we can get you another Trail Blazer.” I don’t know how legal that was either, but I had a sweet ride to the show.
It was black and silver with black leather interior. It was awesome. It was the car that I would have wanted if I didn’t live down a dirt road. I was in love. I grabbed the tickets, my makeup bag, and Duran Duran’s Wedding Album and I was off.
So, we went to the local Chevy dealership one Saturday morning after pancake breakfast to see what there was to see. I’m still not sure why I never even got to test drive a pickup. Maybe it was the sales person, or maybe my mom just wanted to try out the TrailBlazer. Maybe I wanted to drive it because I liked to color. I really don’t remember. At any rate, I got behind the wheel of a Burgundy 2003 Chevy TrailBlazer and was pretty awed. It had a 6 CD changer, a sun roof, leather seats, more room that any sensible person needed, and hydraulic seats. I was impressed, but I wasn’t sold. It didn’t have 4 wheel drive, which had been one of the main reasons I wanted a bigger vehicle, and it was really expensive. Regarding the 4x4, I was told that I didn’t need it because I was “a woman”. Yeah. Someone actually said that to me. And my mom didn’t immediately pack up and leave.
I really want to blame it on her, but the fact of the matter was, I needed new car before that Monday. I had already bought the tickets for the MCR show, but my mom wasn’t going to let me drive the Focus all that way because of the tires. I would like to add that my prime operative that Saturday was to consider some new modes of transport to think about, but to spend to $500 it would have taken to get brand new tires in time for the show. We wound up trading in the Focus – Sylvia, I had called her, after Sylvia Plath – for the TrailBlazer. My mom financed and stroked the check. We were to pick the truck up Monday morning, as they wanted to detail it.
Monday came, we went to get my new ride so I could head to Orlando, and it wasn’t there. Apparently, it had already been sold before I ever test drove it. We bought someone else’s car. We paid for someone else’s car. And the dealership had already cashed the check and sold my car. I was carless and I had to be in Orland by 7 that night. I was fucked. But so were they. They had broken the law and they were scrambling to make it right before we caught wise and called the cops. I was 18 and my only concern was how I was going to get to my damn show, and I said as much. They were willing to do anything to make us happy at that point, so they handed me the keys to a 2003 Monte Carlo. “It’s yours until we can get you another Trail Blazer.” I don’t know how legal that was either, but I had a sweet ride to the show.
It was black and silver with black leather interior. It was awesome. It was the car that I would have wanted if I didn’t live down a dirt road. I was in love. I grabbed the tickets, my makeup bag, and Duran Duran’s Wedding Album and I was off.
Friday, June 8, 2012
Happy Birthday, Nick Rhodes!
Today is Nick Rhodes’ birthday. I would love nothing more than to be able to go back to Palatka alone and do my antiquing and sit in the City Café and write and eat something involving Strawberries since they are St. Nick’s favorite food.
Nick Rhodes has been a fixture in my life since I was 12 and I first got internet at the house. I have known who Duran Duran was since 6th grade when my mom bought me the Medazzaland album. Whatever you do, do not get me started on Duran Duran history and Discography, because I can go on and on.
“Well, things really started to fall apart with the original lineup around the time of Notorious, but I think it was time for the band to go in a new direction anyway. The 80’s were ending and they needed to evolve. It was at this time that they brought in former Missing Persons guitarist Warren Cuccurullo to replace Andy Taylor, but they wouldn’t bring him on as a full fledged band member until 1990’s Liberty. That album also had Sterl – oh. You don’t care . . ."
When I got the Medazzaland album, I wasn’t sure what to make of it. At the time, all I knew of the band was the song Ordinary World which always has been and always will be my favorite song. I love music and I love a whole lot of songs, but there’s no song that moves me in quite the way that one does.
It’s an anthem. It speaks to everyone. It’s beautiful. I don’t know enough about music to be able to tell you what key it’s written in, but whatever it is, it pulls at my very essence and for 5 minutes and 40 seconds pulls me away from myself. I am transcended. I am greater than myself.
“Papers in the roadside tell of suffering and grief – here today, forgot tomorrow. Beside the news of holy war and holy need, ours is just a little sorrow now.”
Maybe this makes me sound like I have a real sense of global Schaudenfreude, but I think those lines are more comforting and uplifting than anything I ever read in a holy book or heard sung in a hymn. Who needs pipe organs and robed choirs when we have pop music?
The Medazzaland album art was hot pink and white with what can only be described as graffiti like art throughout. There were some pop art looking drawings of the band members, who at the time were Simon Lebon, Warren, and Nick. It was the smallest the group had ever been, but that’s the Duran Duran that I met, so to me, it will always be the best lineup.
I didn’t mind when John Taylor came back, and I’m alright my Roger Taylor, but I would trade Andy Taylor for Warren any day of the week. He is a better guitarist and he’s not a self important prick. Anyway, the album art didn’t really belie what these guys actually looked like and to tell you the truth, I thought that they were a fairly contemporary band.
It wasn’t until I got the internet that I discovered that they had been around longer than I had and that they were a good looking bunch of guys. From day one, I was a Nick fan. In 1998, there was an angel fire site (‘member that?) called The Temple of St. Nick. This was fan fic (I think) and so it was nothing but hundreds and hundreds of career spanning photos of the boy. There was a biography page as well that told little known facts about him. This is where I learned that his favorite food was Strawberries, cus, ya know, if you read it on the internet, it’s the gospel. I also learned that he was 5’6” (I think he's actually closer to 5'8"), what kind of synthesizer he used, and that he was a vegetarian.And so began my long struggle to become one myself.
Over the years there have been several people who I have allowed to influence my life in such ways. I love Lou Reed and am taking up Tai Chi. I love Leonard Cohen and now practice Zen. I love David Bowie and used to wear blue glitter eye makeup (when it was so out of vogue that it may as well had been clown makeup) and I love John Waters and have subsequently become a film junkie.
Maybe this shows a lack of character on my part, but I’ve always chosen to emulate my idols in ways that would better myself. I don’t do heroin, cocaine, drink, smoke, or make it a point to get arrested in order to be more like them. We strive to be more like God, but we don’t go around committing Sodom and Gomorrah-like genocide in order to do it. Well, most of us don’t. Westboro Baptist Church probably would if they could.
I have finally come to terms with the fact that I just don’t have the self control to irradicate meat from my diet. I don’t agree with taking life, but I also have found that I am allergic to soy and that I am anemic. I need meat for my health, in moderation, and my health is more important than my need to gain nonexistent approval from Nick Rhodes over my dietary decisions.
I don’t want to hear from all the militant vegans out there either. You have made the decision to not eat animal products and I support you decision and your right to make it. I kindly ask that you do the same, and know that this didn’t happen without significant effort on my part. I like vegetarian products, but they don’t like me and I am not going to be crazy and miserable anymore just so that I can feel superior because I don’t eat meat. Why am I justifying myself to you anyway? Look, I make an effort to eat ethically and locally raised meats, and I don’t eat a whole lot of em’. I eat a mostly Paleo diet, although I’m not 100% comfortable with labeling myself Paleo. I’m not sure what all comes in that package. And, maybe one day when my health is better and I live somewhere like Seattle, I’ll give it another go. But right now, it’s not at the top of my list. I digress . . .
Nick was beautiful. I think that there’s this phase that all girls go through when they are in middle school where they are attracted to the most effeminate or otherwise androgynous men. There’s something fun about the idea that you could share clothes and makeup with your boyfriend. I think this has everything to do with narcissism. Teenage girls are notoriously self centered, and although I deny it until I am blue in the face, I was surely no different.
I loved the makeup he wore and the angular bone structure in his face. I loved the fop clothes, the Italian shoes, and the bleach blonde hair. Oh, the hair. I always wanted to bleach my hair out and be an edgy platinum blonde with short hair. Sadly, the fact of the matter is that the one time I tried to bleach out even a little bit of my hair (it was right after X-Men came out and I was trying to go for the Rogue look) it turned this brassy orange color. It was never going to work if I tried my whole head. My hair would fry and break and then I’d be bald like Debbie Harry. It was never that meant to be. But I could damn sure be in love with any and everyone who had that which I had so desperately coveted. That might explain my unfaltering allegiance to Slim Shady.
Medazzaland was an interesting album as far as Nick Rhodes was concerned. It was the first time that he provided vocals for a song – the title track in fact. I don’t know why I wrote that, and I don’t know what I was getting at here with this Nick Rhodes rant. I’m sure it had something to do with me loving Nick forever but starting to forsake him for Simon as I have grown up, but feeling guilty about my faltering allegiance . . .
I still love Nick and I think he’s interesting and brilliant and I would love to sit town over a cup of coffee with him just to hear what he has to say about things. But as far as attraction – that which represents a viable mate – I’ve been won over by the cult of Simon. He’s handsome, a good father, and a faithful husband. When we are grown, that’s all any of us ask for, isn’t it? Of course, the sheckles and gold records don’t hurt.
Wednesday, June 6, 2012
June Night
Presently, I am listening to The Killers on Media Player with headphones as loud as I can. He doesn’t look a thing like Jesus, but he talks like a gentleman, like you imagined, when you were young. When I was young. I don't know if I was ever truly young.
I was grating some cabbage earlier so that I could steam it for dinner (I am trying my damnedest to be Paleo – you have to get real creative when you can’t have pasta and you like Italian). I was grating, and I was thinking about the night that I gave myself to him. This night. I wanted him to take my virginity – meaning that he had to be in the dominant position. I was so subservient. I was in love.
Tonight is important, it’s special, and it should be spent in either quiet reflection or in the throes of passion. It would seem like a betrayal to have make love to someone else on this day. Even though it’s over, this day belongs to us. It’s sacrosanct.
I was thinking that it might be interesting to call him tonight – the person who made this night special all those years ago – but what do we really have to say to one another? Like all my other daydreams, this is one that is more pleasurable when locked safely into the realm of fantasy.
I always said that I would rather be someone’s fantasy than their mediocre reality. The same goes for my own. There’s plenty of things that I think about, dream about, that are far more interesting when they remain within the four walls of my mind. Reality is never as interesting as what my blissfully overactive imagination can construct.
My husband doesn’t understand this. He thinks that fantasies were made to me realized – dreams had only to eventually come true. When he feels that things are getting stale in our relationship, he asks me about my fantasies. I never tell him.
First of all, there are some things that should not be spoken. He doesn’t go with things like I do. If I were to tell him that I wanted to be in the middle of a Vin Diesel and Til Lindemann sandwich, he would probably burn all his Rammstein CDs and put the Kibosh on all Vin Diesel flicks.
Secondly, what kind of man wants to hear, "Well, I fantasize about people I have loved but could not be with. I think about people who are not you. These are not sexual thoughts. These are loving passionate thoughts. I fantasize about being loved by someone other than you."
These things simply don't need to be said.
I was grating some cabbage earlier so that I could steam it for dinner (I am trying my damnedest to be Paleo – you have to get real creative when you can’t have pasta and you like Italian). I was grating, and I was thinking about the night that I gave myself to him. This night. I wanted him to take my virginity – meaning that he had to be in the dominant position. I was so subservient. I was in love.
Tonight is important, it’s special, and it should be spent in either quiet reflection or in the throes of passion. It would seem like a betrayal to have make love to someone else on this day. Even though it’s over, this day belongs to us. It’s sacrosanct.
I was thinking that it might be interesting to call him tonight – the person who made this night special all those years ago – but what do we really have to say to one another? Like all my other daydreams, this is one that is more pleasurable when locked safely into the realm of fantasy.
I always said that I would rather be someone’s fantasy than their mediocre reality. The same goes for my own. There’s plenty of things that I think about, dream about, that are far more interesting when they remain within the four walls of my mind. Reality is never as interesting as what my blissfully overactive imagination can construct.
My husband doesn’t understand this. He thinks that fantasies were made to me realized – dreams had only to eventually come true. When he feels that things are getting stale in our relationship, he asks me about my fantasies. I never tell him.
First of all, there are some things that should not be spoken. He doesn’t go with things like I do. If I were to tell him that I wanted to be in the middle of a Vin Diesel and Til Lindemann sandwich, he would probably burn all his Rammstein CDs and put the Kibosh on all Vin Diesel flicks.
Secondly, what kind of man wants to hear, "Well, I fantasize about people I have loved but could not be with. I think about people who are not you. These are not sexual thoughts. These are loving passionate thoughts. I fantasize about being loved by someone other than you."
These things simply don't need to be said.
Tuesday, June 5, 2012
Pisces Iscariot
In other news, I was considering an interesting notion: A story about Lebanon, South Carolina. Isn’t that an interesting name? I think so. I am thinking of it as something like Carnival in that there’s a lot of strange supernatural stuff that Spaghetti/Speedy Atkins as a character, but what do you do with a corpse that died “70 odd years ago”?
Maybe the circus could have one and the town is unimpressed because of Spaghetti? I am thinking that there should be 2 doddering and incompetent undertakers. And there should be the typical sleazy political figure. Maybe she’s a woman though. I am basing a lot of this idea on Pandelirium by Th’ Legendary Shack Shakers. My favorite CD by them by far. I wonder what happens when you write something based on a CD? Another idea for the name of the town is Turn Key, South Carolina, but I really like Lebanon. It just came to me.
I was thinking that He could be a character as well. I was thinking that He could be someone always in the background who turns out to be some sort of mastermind genius. I give Him too much credit. I always valued His intelligence though and He has the potential if not the ambition. That makes me sad.
Getting away from the religious metaphor, all I ever wanted was for Him to be successful and happy. At this point, He doesn’t even have to be successful if I knew that He were just happy. I wanted Him to be the man that I always knew that He could be. And I couldn’t let my faith in him drag me down.
He turned out to be less Jesus Christ and more David Koresh in the end – and yet I worship my savior from afar and crave His love and His approval and drive myself as crazy as my mom has with her own faith beliefs.
Beliefs suck because they are hard to change and I always believed in Him. I had lost Santa, my dad, and my God, I needed something to cling to, and I did. I clung for dear life, my legs wrapped around His waist and His breath hot on my neck. Every breath we drew was Hallelujah. Every word from His lips was a dirge of undying love and devotion.
I hate this. I hate that I need Him – I need the memory of Him – I need the ascetic worship of Him – I need the fasting and the praying and the begging on bended knee for mercy, for love, and forgiveness. I need a holy distraction that comes in the shape of a boy who didn’t have a clue what kind of power I let Him have over me in the beginning. When He realized what He had, it all went sour. Absolute power corrupts absolutely.
"I saw Him! He looked as good as dead. It was so bad I had to turn my head! I would take it all back if I could. I would save Him if I could.
Cut the confessions, forget the excuses. I don’t understand why you’re filled with remorse. Everything you said has come true with a vengeance – the mob’s turned against Him. You backed the right horse.
Christ, I know you can’t hear me. I only did what you wanted me to. Christ I know you can’t hear me, but I have been saddled with the murder of you.
I have been spattered with innocent blood. I will be drug through the slime and the mud. I have been spattered with innocent blood. I shall be drug through the slime and the slime and the slime and the mud.
I don’t know how to love Him. I don’t know why He moves me. He’s just a man like anyone I know. He scares me so . . ."
I never realized until today to what extent I relate to that oft maligned 12th disciple. It’s hard to be Judas. I am Pisces Iscariot. I take myself too seriously. I had so wanted to write about anything other than this tonight. I wonder what would have happened if had been able to speak to Him? Who knows . . .
Maybe the circus could have one and the town is unimpressed because of Spaghetti? I am thinking that there should be 2 doddering and incompetent undertakers. And there should be the typical sleazy political figure. Maybe she’s a woman though. I am basing a lot of this idea on Pandelirium by Th’ Legendary Shack Shakers. My favorite CD by them by far. I wonder what happens when you write something based on a CD? Another idea for the name of the town is Turn Key, South Carolina, but I really like Lebanon. It just came to me.
I was thinking that He could be a character as well. I was thinking that He could be someone always in the background who turns out to be some sort of mastermind genius. I give Him too much credit. I always valued His intelligence though and He has the potential if not the ambition. That makes me sad.
Getting away from the religious metaphor, all I ever wanted was for Him to be successful and happy. At this point, He doesn’t even have to be successful if I knew that He were just happy. I wanted Him to be the man that I always knew that He could be. And I couldn’t let my faith in him drag me down.
He turned out to be less Jesus Christ and more David Koresh in the end – and yet I worship my savior from afar and crave His love and His approval and drive myself as crazy as my mom has with her own faith beliefs.
Beliefs suck because they are hard to change and I always believed in Him. I had lost Santa, my dad, and my God, I needed something to cling to, and I did. I clung for dear life, my legs wrapped around His waist and His breath hot on my neck. Every breath we drew was Hallelujah. Every word from His lips was a dirge of undying love and devotion.
I hate this. I hate that I need Him – I need the memory of Him – I need the ascetic worship of Him – I need the fasting and the praying and the begging on bended knee for mercy, for love, and forgiveness. I need a holy distraction that comes in the shape of a boy who didn’t have a clue what kind of power I let Him have over me in the beginning. When He realized what He had, it all went sour. Absolute power corrupts absolutely.
"I saw Him! He looked as good as dead. It was so bad I had to turn my head! I would take it all back if I could. I would save Him if I could.
Cut the confessions, forget the excuses. I don’t understand why you’re filled with remorse. Everything you said has come true with a vengeance – the mob’s turned against Him. You backed the right horse.
Christ, I know you can’t hear me. I only did what you wanted me to. Christ I know you can’t hear me, but I have been saddled with the murder of you.
I have been spattered with innocent blood. I will be drug through the slime and the mud. I have been spattered with innocent blood. I shall be drug through the slime and the slime and the slime and the mud.
I don’t know how to love Him. I don’t know why He moves me. He’s just a man like anyone I know. He scares me so . . ."
I never realized until today to what extent I relate to that oft maligned 12th disciple. It’s hard to be Judas. I am Pisces Iscariot. I take myself too seriously. I had so wanted to write about anything other than this tonight. I wonder what would have happened if had been able to speak to Him? Who knows . . .
Sunday, June 3, 2012
The Second Time I Saw My Chemical Romance
The next time that the four of us were at a show was in the spring, once again to see MCR, but this time, their friends Bleed the Dream were also playing. It was a mini festival produced by the same guy who put together Warped Tour. Being as uncool as I was, I didn’t realize until they explained it to me later that this music industry big wig was the guy we had spoken to in the parking lot who looked way to old to be at this show and dressed that way.
While we were in line this time, we were very early, but at least it was cold, so it wasn’t so bad. We were in good spirits, trying to make conversation with the roadies as they passed with equipment. I wound up striking up a conversation with a guy with platinum blonde hair and leopard print pants who had carried by an equipment case with Veruca Salt written on it. I asked him if he was in Veruca Salt because I didn’t think they were supposed to be there, and he said no, their band had just bought it used and never bothered to paint over it.
He wasn’t a roadie; he was the lead singer of Opiate for the Masses, a metal band out of Phoenix. A little more conversation revealed that he and I could very well be cousins. And just like that, I had my cool points. I had a really hot cousin that I never knew about who was the lead singer of a metal band. What was really great was that he played along. He even introduced me as his long lost cousin once or twice.
This time, I was able to be right up front for MCR, and it was awesome. The only bad part about what was otherwise a really great concert was the fact that I am 5’3” and when you are in the front and people are crowd surfing, it’s your job to push them over to the security guards. That doesn’t work out so well when you are shorter than everyone else around you because your height creates a hole and the crowd surfers fall on you.
Therefore, I’m not a real big fan of crowd surfing, but I’ll admit that some of that could be angst that I’ve never been able to do it, because I’m kind of heavy (not that that stops some people). I understand why you would want to do it, and I even support your right to. I don’t even mind if you want to do it more than once at the same show. It’s your right and I’m pretty cool about it – until the same 15 year old in hot pink and black striped mall punk clothes nearly breaks my neck by falling on me for the 15th time during the first set.
At that point, I have to wonder who the assholes are in the back that keep picking her up are and why they are doing it. After you come over my head ten times, my patience with you wears thin and I’m not inclined to be nice anymore. I have been known to punch people as they pass over my head, or to grab a handful of love handle or back fat and twist. I don’t mean to be a bitch, but it get aggravating. But maybe I’m just mad because I’ve never done it. One day I’ll see if it’s all it’s cracked up to be.
The last time that I saw the three of them at a show was that summer at Warped Tour. We had big plans to go to Voodoo Fest in the fall, but, ya know, Hurricane Katrina kind of fucked up those plans for everyone. Warped Tour was interesting. I didn’t pal around with them, I had brought my friend Shelly and she and I hung out that day, although we all met up to see MCR and Opiate for the Masses. I was really impressed that Ron remembered me and even more surprised when he cried “Cousin!” upon seeing me. Finally, a little street cred.
While we were in line this time, we were very early, but at least it was cold, so it wasn’t so bad. We were in good spirits, trying to make conversation with the roadies as they passed with equipment. I wound up striking up a conversation with a guy with platinum blonde hair and leopard print pants who had carried by an equipment case with Veruca Salt written on it. I asked him if he was in Veruca Salt because I didn’t think they were supposed to be there, and he said no, their band had just bought it used and never bothered to paint over it.
He wasn’t a roadie; he was the lead singer of Opiate for the Masses, a metal band out of Phoenix. A little more conversation revealed that he and I could very well be cousins. And just like that, I had my cool points. I had a really hot cousin that I never knew about who was the lead singer of a metal band. What was really great was that he played along. He even introduced me as his long lost cousin once or twice.
This time, I was able to be right up front for MCR, and it was awesome. The only bad part about what was otherwise a really great concert was the fact that I am 5’3” and when you are in the front and people are crowd surfing, it’s your job to push them over to the security guards. That doesn’t work out so well when you are shorter than everyone else around you because your height creates a hole and the crowd surfers fall on you.
Therefore, I’m not a real big fan of crowd surfing, but I’ll admit that some of that could be angst that I’ve never been able to do it, because I’m kind of heavy (not that that stops some people). I understand why you would want to do it, and I even support your right to. I don’t even mind if you want to do it more than once at the same show. It’s your right and I’m pretty cool about it – until the same 15 year old in hot pink and black striped mall punk clothes nearly breaks my neck by falling on me for the 15th time during the first set.
At that point, I have to wonder who the assholes are in the back that keep picking her up are and why they are doing it. After you come over my head ten times, my patience with you wears thin and I’m not inclined to be nice anymore. I have been known to punch people as they pass over my head, or to grab a handful of love handle or back fat and twist. I don’t mean to be a bitch, but it get aggravating. But maybe I’m just mad because I’ve never done it. One day I’ll see if it’s all it’s cracked up to be.
The last time that I saw the three of them at a show was that summer at Warped Tour. We had big plans to go to Voodoo Fest in the fall, but, ya know, Hurricane Katrina kind of fucked up those plans for everyone. Warped Tour was interesting. I didn’t pal around with them, I had brought my friend Shelly and she and I hung out that day, although we all met up to see MCR and Opiate for the Masses. I was really impressed that Ron remembered me and even more surprised when he cried “Cousin!” upon seeing me. Finally, a little street cred.
Friday, June 1, 2012
The First Time I Saw My Chemical Romance
The first time I saw MCR, they played in Orlando. I am going to take this opportunity to tell you that I hate driving to Orlando from Crescent City. I have driven across states and the trip to Orlando is still one that I hate. It’s not that long, only about 2 hours, but there’s the toll road, I never have change, and it’s just a really boring drive. Drivers are mean, there are more traffic related deaths on that stretch on I-4 than on any other stretch of road in the country, and I am always terrified that I’m tempting fate every time I go down there.
I like to be extra cautious and give myself plenty of time to get to wherever I’m going. I left at 1 and arrived at 3. Whitney, Melissa, and Aila were already there. For several hours, it was just the four of us sitting on the sidewalk outside of Hard Rock, talking and catching up. I had brought my makeup with me because I knew I would have plenty of time to work on it while I was there. After an hour or so of waiting, I broke out the eyeliner and got to work. I was looking at Whitney who was to my left, while holding a compact in one hand and the eyeliner pencil in the other. I was blather on about something that I can’t even remember, and Whitney interrupted me,
“Joyce,”
“Hang on, I’m not finished.”
“Joyce!”
“Shut up, give me a minute.” I should have noticed that she was looking over my shoulder, but I was too busy with the makeup and with what I was saying.
“What?!?” I finally replied as I exasperatedly put down the eyeliner.
She pointed over my shoulder. I turned to see several figures walking around the corner. I looked at Melissa.
“Well?”
“That was MCR.”
My black rimmed eyes grew wide. “What?”
“Yeah, they came out the stage door. They were standing right next to you, but you wouldn’t shut up and they left.”
I was mortified. Mortified. I had almost had a “Whitney Moment” and I fucked it up. That was only the beginning of my troubles though.
As we were so early, we managed to get a spot right in front of the stage when the doors opened. As any concert goer knows, you wait to be let in, and then they make you wait for the show to start. Well, by the time that I had waited in that sea of bodies for half an hour pressed into the security railing, I felt like I was going to faint, and of course, that made me feel like a complete and utter pussy.
I tried to hold out, I really did. I don’t think I even made it to the first band before I had to leave. I remember watching a now disbanded group called Letter Kills from the balcony which was surprisingly both open to the general audience and empty. The singer from that band had a tambourine and never stopped moving during their whole set. I was impressed.
A couple of other less memorable bands played, and I was bored . . . then MCR took the stage. From the balcony I could see everything, and I was further mortified to see Gerard lean over the rails, microphone in hand, and sing with Whitney, Aila, and Melissa during the chorus of “I’m Not Okay”.
I should have been there. It should have been me. I was never going to be as cool as them. I was a wimp. I couldn’t hack it in the pit. I sucked.
After their set, we all decided to leave. No one liked the headlining band, and by this time it was around 1 or 2 in the morning. I thought I was just tired, and we were all going to get a hotel together, but no one would rent to us, so I set out for Crescent City alone. I just wanted to go to sleep. I was hot, and I felt as though I would pass out any minute.
Like so many other times, I miraculously made it home and went to bed, covered in sweat and smeared makeup. In the morning I didn’t feel any better. Thus began my month long battle with the flu that included burn orange pee, laxatives, sleeping pills, and vicodin.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)