A Mess Like Me

What is wrong with you???

noreply@blogger.com (VKLynne) — Thu, 03 Nov 2011 09:40:00 +0000

I can hear her say it now.

The first time I heard it was freshman year of college. My new roommate remarked,

“I’m going to Mass- you coming?”

I was confused.

“When?”

“In a few minutes.”

“What? Like, tonight?”

“Yeahhh…?”

“How are you going to get there?”

“I’m gonna walk…?”

“You’re gonna walk to New England??”

“What?”

“WHERE ARE YOU GOING???”

“MASS! CHURCH!”

“Church?! Then what’s Mass??”

“It’s church!!! WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU???”

Col provided my first insights to Philly and Catholicism. We attended a Catholic college with a large Philadelphian student body. I myself had lived outside the city, in Dutch Country, up until that point, and I’d never even met a Catholic. Thus the ‘Mass-ive’ confusion (sorry- couldn’t resist:).

We were the roommates assigned to each other by the school. And a Laverne & Shirley pairing it was. Col was a math major, and I was a theater major. I was a neat freak, she was more of a ‘stay-where-it-landed’ kind of girl. Her style was conservative, mine…well, you know.

Yet somehow- it worked.

We stayed together all four years…And I wouldn’t trade a day of it.

I remember her pledging the one sorority on campus and making it through 2 days. Then she came storming through the door with a brick in a shopping cart, and said, “Fuck this. I’m not putting up with this shit just to go to some sorority formal. Besides, it’s all ridiculous anyway- there’s only one damn sorority on campus, what’s the fucking point?”

Col was not one to mince words. She was no-nonsense, and I respected the hell out of that. She kept me grounded; as a theater major you could get lost in your own creative bubble…but not when you lived with Col.

Sophomore year I had a bad time of it; I grew really depressed, and one day Col walks in while I’m standing on the windowsill in a black dress, all emo and whatnot, with ‘Bells for Her’ by Tori Amos on the stereo (yeah, I just went for it). She opens the door, glances at me, and without missing a beat says:

“This shit has to stop, Vik, you’re fucking friekin’ me out; what is wrong with you?” and continues walking right into the bathroom.

It’s hard to be too self-indulgent after that.

That was the year we lived in Lawless Hall (yes, every joke that could be lobbed at that one, was), which was adjoined to Brisson Chapel. We dreaded those Saturday mornings when a wedding was being held in the sanctuary. After a late night, you’d wake up to that dying-cat sound. We’d both groan, then from under her pillow, the muffled:

“Jesus Christ…with the fuckin’ bagpipes again.”

We put up with each other’s idiosyncrasies. She never complained when Brandy and I dyed our hair in huge buckets of Kool-Aid in the room. I never complained when she and Dottie sat on the floor and drank AfterShock while they sang Hootie and the Blowfish. She put up with my boyfriend at that time, who was a thoroughly obnoxious human, and I did the same for her when Shamokin started coming around;) (Love ya, John).

She talked me into starting to watch General Hospital with her; she called it “roommate bonding hour” and we sat and munched Irish potatoes while Sonny Corrinthos smoldered on our cheap, dinky T.V.

(Irish potatoes were a whole other episode…”Potatoes? But they’re so small!” “That’s because they’re not REALLY potatoes; they’re candy…what is wrong with you???”)

After college, we stayed in touch; I went to her wedding, she came to mine, and we visited when we could.

I wish now that it had been more often.

The night John called and told me that Col had stage 4 lung cancer, I was floored. She never smoked a day in her life. And…she was Col. No muss, no fuss, almost never sick…and so young. How could this be possible?

Sean and I had flown in for Christmas, so we went to see her and John and their son, Jack (who looks just like Col). True to her nature, she whipped out her x-ray and showed us the tumor that had been taken out of her brain. “Look at that fuckin’ thing! It was like a third of my head.” She seemed in good spirits, and I hoped that things would turn around for her.

I saw her a few times after that. She was disappointed that her hair never grew back after the chemo. We chatted on the phone one day, and she said:

“You know, I’ve never liked a whole lot about my looks- but I did like my hair. And now the damn stuff won’t grow back.”

“I know Col, but think about the sassy wigs you can rock.”

We laughed, and said we would call each other more often.

Then this week happened.

My phone rang Tuesday night, and I saw it was John…it was late in PA. My stomach sank. For him to call late…it couldn’t be good news.

He said that Col had taken a sudden turn for the worse, and that she was home in hospice care. I was completely startled; he said that we only had a few days to a week. I guess I had expected things to degenerate more slowly…or better yet, for the treatment to be successful at last and get her back on her feet. I just always thought somehow…she’d come back from it.

He told me that she wasn’t coherent, but that it would be good for her to hear my voice. He warned me that she wouldn’t be able to respond, but that I could say a few words to her. He offered to go wake her right then, but I told him that he shouldn’t disturb her rest so late, that I would call in the morning and see if she was up to it. He said that would be great, and promised to keep me updated.

I will always regret not letting him wake her.

Approximately 5 hours later, she was gone.

And as I sit here right now, fighting tears, I can hear her saying, “Jeez, Vik, I’m finally at peace now; stop making such a big thing out of this…what is wrong with you?”

A lot less than there might have been had I not known her. May you have peace and no more pain, and may you know that in this life you were adored by many- and that you will be missed by all whose lives you touched.

I love you, Col.

Colleen Loftus Brennan

Brave Heart

noreply@blogger.com (VKLynne) — Tue, 18 Oct 2011 07:27:00 +0000

I can't stop listening to 'Nothing' by The Script.

There's a few reasons. One: What woman could deny a man who could bleed like that for her? Two: It perhaps reminds me of my own dark Irishman, and the blood he's shed with a smile.

Sean is the strongest man I know. And not for the reasons one might think.

Oh, certainly, he'll trap a mouse, do the taxes, check out the noises in the night- all the 'scary' things that husbands often do...In fact, I remember one weekend, before we were actually together.... A group of us had gone to NYC during the run of Rent; it was when you could camp outside the Nederlander overnight, and in the morning get the seats in the first 2 rows for $20. (We were teenagers, and we thought it was the best thing ever:). It was late, and NYC can get a bit 'live' in the wee hours; also, we were all freezing and tired, and some shady-looking guys started hovering near our little group. Sean stood up, walked over and just began chatting with them pleasantly. They eventually walked on, without a fuss. One of the girls came over and pulled me into her blanket, shivering. "I'm so glad Sean's here", she said. "I just always feel better when he's around, you know? Safer." The other girls nodded soberly. I remember laughing a bit, but then looking over at him....He was casually checking on those asleep, watching both ends of the street for trouble, and letting the girls take turns huddling in his parka. Our strong sentinel.

But I was to find- his bravery ran much deeper than that.

In a man, the ultimate bravery is to be vulnerable- and to be confident enough to be so openly. To allow his insecurities, his most secret dreams, his fears, to be known ....to put himself in a position to be scorned, mocked... disdained. It's not a stance our society often celebrates. But for me, it's one of the sexiest things he can do.

Longer ago than I will ever admit in this blog, Sean pronounced the line that won my heart then, and charms it now: "Just so I'm clear...I'm basically throwing myself at you, RIGHT. NOW." That's the kind of chutzpah that I could not dismiss.

That same year, with the same unabashed enthusiasm, this is the man who memorized and recited to me the first poem of mine that had ever been published, as a surprise for me on my birthday. The same man who later that summer, after an evening out, steadied a tipsy VK and took her hands to say, "Wait, don't go to sleep yet...what would you say, if I said, 'I love you'?" And of course, the same man who re-wrote the lyrics to one of my songs, made it into a proposal, and knelt down to sing it to me (Sean does not sing:) one chilly October night.

These things would be enough. But the fact that he bared his soul so emphatically to a girl who was nicknamed "The Ice Queen" before he came along....well, he took it up a 'whole. nother. level.'

He tamed the tundra- and created a tropical beach.

It sounds cliche, but he made me laugh- because he didn't mind being laughed at. He made me smile- because he smiled all the time. He made me believe in myself, because when it came to me- there wasn't a doubt in his mind.

These last years, he's been secure enough to take a backseat during the times when his 'rockstar wife', as he calls her, has gotten the spotlight. Brave enough to send her, and all their money, to Scandinavia alone to record a CD. Strong enough to turn down the pretty casting director who asked him out during his audition, and tell her about his happy marriage. (He got the role anyway.)

William Wallace has nothing on him.

Happy Anniversary, my love. Thank you for braving the 'calendar chaos'.
Next year in Erin.
L.B. ;)

Fly Your (Black) Flag.

noreply@blogger.com (VKLynne) — Thu, 28 Jul 2011 06:03:00 +0000

We all have those things that we just dig in an idiosyncratic way, that delight us and cause us to bounce and clap like a toddler at Christmas.

I unapologetically feel this way about late M*A*S*H episodes (the ones that Alan Alda directed when Hawkeye got so evocatively existential you wanted the Korean War to last forever), early Marillion (no disrespect to Mr. Hogarth, but FISH- come on!), Russian novels (Nabokov makes my synapses tingle in an I-may-go-insane-from-this-book-but-what-a-way-to-go kind of way), pumpkin bread (NUTMEG DRIZZLE- that's all I'm saying), pinatas (filled with the good candy...read-chocolate) and Henry Rollins.

What I love about Henry is what I loved about my ex-fiance (wow, that lands like a bomb, doesn't it?). He has a FUCKING OPINION. Sometimes he's dead wrong, but at least he has the balls to put it out there, without diplomacy, and HAVE it.

(Unfortunately for my former boyfriend, one of his opinions was that his girlfriend shouldn't have a BRAIN in her head, but merely be an ornament. He was vexed to find otherwise.

Aw.

So I changed his name to Ex.

This displeased him as well.

Sniff.)

Regardless of his new moniker, I always did respect the hell out of Ex's nearly Ted Nugent-like capacity to maintain an unpopular stance in the face of MASSIVE disagreement.

Henry not only does that...but he backs it up with a healthy dose of intellect- and not a small dollop of passion.

It's something we are losing in this world of social-networking-gang-mentality where unsanctioned ideas that conflict with the group view are quickly squashed...along with the renegade thinker.

Agree with us? We will smother you in a suffusion of cyber-love, 'Likes', 'RT's' and coveted '#FF's'.

Disagree with us? You will be maligned, bullied, stalked, blocked, blighted from the Face of the Book unable able to make another Tweet.

(I couldn't resist...Relax- it's all in good pun.)

Many have lost sight of the 'social' in 'social networking'. By definition, it indicates that more than one person will be voicing his or her ideas, and ostensibly, you signed on because you'd like to hear them. If you don't want to hear a particular voice- well, much like the television, change the channel. But if you only want to hear your OWN voice...then there's a bigger issue.

Suddenly, a survival of the fittest, strongest, loudest or meanest climate turns what began as a forum for healthy debate into a junior high school bathroom.

Replace Henry Rollins with @NamelessDude34, and ascribe to him some of the things the Black Flag prophet has said...? He wouldn't last a day online.

We may feel victorious when we silence a voice, an opinion, a person who we felt was "wrong". But what if WE were wrong? And when we realize that, what if we have nothing left but...

...Silence?

The Identity Principle

noreply@blogger.com (VKLynne) — Tue, 19 Jul 2011 03:56:00 +0000

Do you know who you are? I read this question in an article recently...It's a question worth asking.

My immediate response was that if I ever said that I knew EXACTLY who and what I "am", I would think I'd stagnated and better get myself in gear...or that I hadn't given it enough thought;).

But then I started to turn the matter over in my head (as I tend to do), and I think that it's not as simple as the media might have us believe.

Much is made in our current society of identity (and yes, that prepositional phrase is intentionally placed creatively). We ascribe to a sort of Identity Principle, wherein we admonish others - and are ourselves admonished- to find out "who we are" and to proudly proclaim as concrete that knowledge, once we have acquired it.

To a large degree, that concept is positive. And, in principle, I agree...and disagree.

Self-examination is a good thing. But much like external inspection, soul perusing must lead to reparative ACTION. You wouldn't stand before a mirror all day, eyeing your tousled mane, and say, "Well, nothing to be done for it, this is who I am."

Indeed not. You would get yourself a comb, rectify your ratty locks, and move forward with your day. I propose the same principle must be put into place when we discover our internal selves are at 6's and 7's.

Humans are complex, and "who they are"- fluid. I am not the same woman I was 5 years ago, thank heaven, and 5 years from now, God willing, I will not be the woman I am today.
So perhaps I'd amend the phrase "who you are" to "who you are RIGHT NOW."

That speaks to what is marvelous about the fluidity of humanity, in that there is always hope that if you do not like "who you are right now", you can set about becoming who you CAN be...working towards who you WANT to be.

Will you always achieve it? Decidedly not. But our society, inasmuch as it is a proponent of the Identity Principle, is also an advocate of the Fix Your Shit principle.

Are you an addict? Rehab.
Survivor of trauma, abuse, etc? Therapy.
Underemployed, unemployed, simply inquisitive? Education.
Fat? Gym.
Old? Botox.
Etc.
Etc.
Etc.

As in the Identity Principle, the Fix Your Shit Principle has its pros and cons, which can be plainly gleaned from just a glance at this short (and astoundingly glib) list. But it is just as valid. If not more so.

Melissa Etheridge sang, "The only thing that stays the same is change." History corroborates her story, and the lessons we learn from those changes are perhaps what make us, dare I say it, "who we are."

On the one hand, the upended fixtures within the kitchens of our characters prevent many of us from cooking with gas. So we remain undernourished, content to feed upon the bread & circus of modern life. And we justify our own soul-starvation with the balm of "this is just who I am."

On the other end of the spectrum, we have those who have forgone their own cookery altogether to dine at the expensive 4-star narcissistic eateries of the ego, where they nibble at the self-indulgent dainties that never satisfy them.

(Do I like a metaphor or what?)

But perhaps this all leads to the real issue, which is how do we define "who we are"?

I would posit that the popular definition is:
Our occupation, our appearance, our likes, our dislikes-
Our tastes.

But at the end of your life, will you reflect on those things, or will you consider yourself in relation to others- who you helped, who you hurt, who your loved? And will THAT be what you finally take with you into eternity as "who you are"?

Perhaps I've gone 'round the bend. It wouldn't be the first time.

But hey...that's just who I am.

What We Want

noreply@blogger.com (VKLynne) — Sun, 03 Jul 2011 04:12:00 +0000

(Last night I had a conversation with a dear friend…one of those conversations that makes you really examine your thoughts and ideas on an issue. Here’s the results.)

We all want something. Different things, different reasons. And sometimes we know what steps, what paths to take to get them. Other times…we’re groping around in the dark.

Sometimes we have access to some things others want. Hell, that’s the currency this Tinsel Town runs on. People in power hold the keys to doors to the dreams of the powerless. But in reality- no one is completely powerless.

As Hollywood goes, I am not even remotely a celebrity. I am singularly high on ‘The “V” List’;). However, this week, I was able to get something for someone else based on my “V” List status…. I happened to know someone who happened to be looking for someone to do EXACTLY what my friend wanted. So little effort was required on my part…and someone else was made so happy.

It felt good. To work together, instead of against. In our popularity-contest-vote-for-every-damn-thing-culture, we are in competition with our peers for careers, prestige, status. But what if we weren’t?

Perhaps I’m sounding like a Communist, but as a friend recently said, “It’s time to bring back a good old-fashioned Red Scare.” ( I jest- even as I type, my phone is being tapped….).

But seriously…

What do you want?

What do your friends want?

What do your acquaintances want?

O_O - What do your enemies want?

Maybe you have it.

Maybe you can help them.

Maybe they can help you.

…Maybe we can all get what we want.

Conventional wisdom and Mick Jagger will tell you that you can’t ALWAYS get what you want, but once in a while…? Wouldn’t the world be a little sweeter if we all tried to fulfill each others dreams along with our own?

Let’s try something. This week, tell people what you want. Tweet it, Tumble it, FB it. Then find out what OTHERS want. And GIVE.

If everyone’s giving…someone’s bound to receive.

At the end of the week- we may just have made everyone’s summer a little brighter.:)

Let’s get what we want.

Deal?:)

Thanks, Kacie.

Animus

noreply@blogger.com (VKLynne) — Sat, 11 Jun 2011 06:25:00 +0000

“Animus… It means spirit, courage, passion, wrath. This is mine.” ~Tony Stonem, Skins

I wrote it across my bicep with a Sharpie before I left…to remind me. Put fresh strings on Zelda, and set off to terrorize the quiet night.

I’m a singer/songwriter. And in some quarters- alright, in MOST quarters- that conjures an image of a willow-y, blond, wan, makeup-less girl with a sunburst acoustic guitar breathing out verse from her diary that she’s propped on a music stand in a teary soprano, while an erstwhile chap in a flannel shirt and felt fedora taps bongos behind her.

I’m not that kind of singer/songwriter.

Which has caused some consternation with bookers and soundmen alike. The former finds that his ostensible “background music” is silencing his small talkers, or scaring his children, and the latter gasps “Fuck!” when I start to sing, and flies across the booth for his compressor…Then glares at me for the remaining 40 minutes I’m up there.

(After a particularly rowdy night, one such sound tech came up to me and grabbed my ribcage. “Can I touch you?”, he asked, belatedly.

“Why?”, I backed away.

“Because I can’t believe all that noise came out of that little person.”)

I wear big boots for this reason. Yes, I am small- but I FEEL 5’9” with my boots! Without them, I’m an “awww”-worthy 5’3”. This induces my drummer to pick me up and toss me over his shoulder (by the way- not cool. You don’t see Shannon throwing Jared around, do you? But I digress..).

So to sum up- I’m little and loud and LOW, and damn it, I’m tried of apologizing for it. I’m weary of the other flower-y acts who look up when I start, with so much horror on their faces…they look at each other, and you know their internal monologue sounds something like, “Oh. my. God. Becky. Listen to her. She is sooo loud…And she growls like a man…”.

(Ironically, dudes dig it. That low growl is what gets me calls from metal bands to put tracks down on crazy thrash records!)

I decided last night to make no excuses. To say what I wanted, the way I wanted. To sing as loud as I felt. To feel as hard as I sang. And it was unlike any show before.

Just me and Zelda, and, for the first time, my spoken word poetry. Was there a ‘fuck’ or two? I cannot lie. But I felt the songs in a way that I may have never felt them before, knit together by verse… and I let them carry me.

After shows, folks in the audience like to come up, hug me, chat, etc. Last night- no one would come near. They shrank back. They stared. They were afraid.

Sean said, “You were ANGRY.” And I realized, he was right- I was. And I LET myself be, instead of pretending I wasn’t. And it felt good.

The guy who sang before me said backstage, “Great set… man, that VOICE!”.

(I always feel like Owen Meany when people say that.:)

But I thanked him- because I could see in his eyes… he got what I was doing out there.

“Animus… It means spirit, courage, passion, wrath”. THAT was mine.

And now that I’ve found it- I won’t lose it again.

Over the Top? Great Art Was Born that Way

noreply@blogger.com (VKLynne) — Fri, 20 May 2011 03:21:00 +0000

There's been a bit of an attitude- a condescending, chuckling, eye-rolling sort of business- towards theatricality in popular music, and to be honest, that puzzles me a bit.

Great music has come in all forms over the years, from the uplifting and soothing, to the angry and incendiary. But great art has sprung from dispensing with safety.

The Beatles wrote timeless songs that we will cherish forever, but Sgt. Pepper is the record that we refer to when we want to describe the innovation of the band. David Bowie's music has been immortalized in everything from Pepsi commercials to Flight of the Conchords, but without Ziggy Stardust, we might not have Lady Gaga.

Which brings me to the point- even if you don't particularly enjoy a certain artist's work, you must respect when that artist casts caution to the winds and takes a swing- a big swing. Because without the strikes, we wouldn't have the home runs of Tommy, The Wall or The Amsterdam Bed-In.

Still, despite history's proof that time lends credence to the epic grandeur of musical theatricality, there is scoffing. Fans of current dispassionate ironically retro bands that seem to almost smirk at their own efforts find comfort in the fact that the musicians they listen to are as cynical and emotionally impassive as they themselves. They say Lady Gaga is a ball of overblown antics, My Chemical Romance is a kids' emo band, and 30 Seconds to Mars is an oversexed actor's vanity project.

What they fail to see is the passion- Whether it hits or misses, the raw emotion that these artists bravely lay bare for their listeners is what keeps those ears riveted.

When Gaga climbed into a plastic egg and was carted off by her retinue, she was completely aware that she was opening herself up to ridicule and derision.

When Gerard Way and company decided that they would assume the colorful identities and ray guns of the Fabulous Killjoys to make a conceptual post-apocalytic record and comic book, they did so with the full knowledge that many would write it off as childish and pandering to a young crowd.

When Jared Leto wrapped women in leather and ball gags for 30 Seconds to Mars' video 'Hurricane', he knew that some would decry it as shock tactics and narcissism.

What all the critics failed to realize is that even IF each of those efforts was exactly what they accused them of being- they were all still victories.

Because NO ONE was apathetic- People formed opinions.
They were made to think, to argue, to discuss, to admire, to recoil. Listeners and viewers were challenged, and in the end, that is what elevates mere media to art.

If we are to find expression for and make sense of our increasingly confused emotions, in an increasingly complex world, we must embrace the pioneers who are willing to put their hearts on their sleeves for us and give voice to the complicated feelings we harbor about society, values, and our relations to each other amidst the rapid changes in both. We cannot settle for merely being entertained. We should seek to be edified. Unless we want to become touch-screen humans in a digital world.

The good news is- there is a growing number of people who are realizing the dangers and are opening their minds to performance art and musical theatricality as a vital expression of our humanity for posterity.

So up and coming artists- write that rock opera about artificial intelligence. Glue tapioca to your face and tap dance in blue paint. Create sculptures out of recycled toilet paper that you cover with chocolate sauce while the gallery plays your new CD in the background. Die your hair pink and sing blues songs with symphonic metal tendencies in your indie web series;).

The world may not always get it, but it will be watching...and listening.

Metal: Women not Weapons

noreply@blogger.com (VKLynne) — Sun, 15 May 2011 01:09:00 +0000

Who says women can’t get along?

Apparently, a lot of people. In the workplace, women craftily bully underlings, while schools report female bullying is on the rise to an alarming degree. And social networking is rampant with mean girl antics that would have astonished our mothers.

On the dating scene, the blame is placed on the disproportionate ratio of eligible men to single women. In professional settings, it is noted that there are, many times, so few ‘spots’ for women in the ‘upper ranks’ that any newcomer is seen as a threat to the women in those spots. So they protect their territories- with gusto.

It seems in every facet of society, women are struggling to find harmony- and, no pun intended, the music world is no different. However, it seems one group of women have found the key to unity- and they are using it to give back.

Click here to read full article

Osama bin Laden- Alive in Death

noreply@blogger.com (VKLynne) — Tue, 03 May 2011 07:28:00 +0000

Everyone is right, and everyone is wrong.

Perhaps that’s why responses to the death of Osama bin Laden have been hard to define. Unlike the universal grief, anger and fear that Americans felt on September 11th, today, we have been all over the emotional map. Ironically, bin Laden has been more ‘alive’ in our minds in the last 48 hours than he’s been in all the years he’s been in hiding.

Social networking sites often offer more insight into public sentiment than formal news outlets, and today was no exception. After observing Twitter and Facebook throughout the day, 4 distinct positions emerged:

Click here for full article:

Movie Rehash- Next up: Gatsby

noreply@blogger.com (VKLynne) — Thu, 21 Apr 2011 02:24:00 +0000

“It is invariably saddening to look through new eyes at things upon which you have expended your own powers of adjustment.”
- F. Scott Fitzgerald

Leonardo DiCaprio will have to go a long way to prove a worthy successor to Robert Redford when he and Baz Luhrmann take on a 3D re-telling of The Great Gatsby.

3D. Really? Will the audience be im-Myrtlized in death beneath Tom’s car, or will the sloshed champagne from Jay’s West Egg parties dampen our seats? Either way- does it NEED to? Aren’t Fitzgerald’s classic characters and timeless words enough?

Hollywood continues to attempt to improve upon- or capitalize on- successes of the past. This month we’ve seen Arthur (the original is a mere 30 years old) re-made to mixed reviews, and a full slate of remakes are rumored to be in production, includingThe Crow and Footloose (both to the dismay of the diehards). There have been recent re-inventions of The Karate Kid, Nightmare on Elm Street, Tron and Clash of the Titans, and even television series have not been spared, with the release of the A-Team movie (Dwight Shultz is the ONLY Howling Mad Murdock in my book) and the Miami Vice that left a Michael Mann-shaped hole in my heart.

Click here for full article

My Horizon

noreply@blogger.com (VKLynne) — Wed, 20 Apr 2011 17:20:00 +0000

It is key to understanding this entrapment- this sentence within the fleshy jail of mortality- to realize that we cannot change the bars or the walls, or the height from the floor of the small, solitary window in the corner. We cannot choose whether it is placed on the east or the west side, and so some of us are condemned to continually and gloomily watch the sun set, while others seem to be perpetually and cheerily greeting the morning.

My twilight view is reflected in the colors of my fancies: purple, blue, pink; dusky tones that evoke nostalgia, reflection, melancholy. My western window provides the backdrop for my solitary musings that overflow into these lines.

I have attempted to see the sunrise. Awoken at preternatural hours within my soul to strain my eyes from the farthest angle of the cold sill, only to cause peripheral ache and weary darkness to send me, frustrated, back to bed.

And so acceptance comes. I decorate my cell with wildly drawn aspects; I deck the unbending casement with blousy linen, and I drink in the spectacle of the sinking solar sphere with greater and greater attention to its details. I learn what its waning radiance has to teach, that I may perhaps mold the lessons into scraps of wisdom that offer comforts, however rudimentary, to the other inmates along my horizontal plane, and education to our neighbors on the eastern wing.

Sunset on this day’s dream. That I may dream a new one tomorrow.

#SingItForTheWorld

noreply@blogger.com (VKLynne) — Sun, 17 Apr 2011 01:27:00 +0000

Social networking. Love it or hate it, it’s here to stay, and we’d better start learning how to use it responsibly.

This week, there have been 2 incidents where bodily harm resulted from clashing musical fanbases. Twitter hashtags sprang up on timelines, trending #SingitforSniper (‘Sniper’ being a young My Chemical Romance fan who was cyber-bullied by a Justin Bieber fan to the point where she attempted suicide via overdose; she is now hospitalized and recovering), then mere days later #SingitForShane began its circuit, which was to show support for a young MCR fan who was physically attacked by a group of ‘Beliebers’, which resulted in broken bones and glass embedded in his leg. He is also currently hospitalized.

Years ago, when Ozzy and Judas Priest were under fire for inciting violence and suicide, society pointed to their lyrics and images to justify the accusations. But even those critics would be hard-pressed to see the correlation between the decidedly harmless young Mr. Bieber and gang beatings. Or between the music of a band whose lyrics include admonishments to “sing it for the boys, sing it for the girls” and self-harm.

It’s not about either artist…or even their respective fan armies.

It’s about mob mentality. And a burning need to be validated. Now that the everyone has access to a platform, no matter how small, to express their opinion, they do so with great vigor. And they want others to agree.

Now that in itself is fairly innocuous; however, when that need seeks to also inform others’ opinions- or rather FORCE others’ opinions to fall in line with their own…it becomes an ‘US’ against ‘THEM’ situation that the bands themselves never intended. Music is intended to unite, heal, challenge, educate, soothe, and excite. Not divide and destroy.

Which is why the constant online ‘competitions’ that include endless and repetitive fan voting are so dangerous. Log in to Twitter or Facebook any day and see fans voting ’round the clock to ensure that their band wins…what, exactly? A title that will be forgotten tomorrow, and in actuality, only means that THIS band’s fans managed to vote the most- via sleep deprivation, ‘alliances’ with other fanbases, and sheer badgering of others. The ‘fun’ that may have been intended is almost always drained away by one band’s weary victory, and the other bands’ sad and angry defeats. Resentments grow. Tempers flare.

Do not misunderstand- The fan armies themselves, by and large, are a good thing. They bring together people who share a common passion; they support artists in a time when musicians are terribly embattled by their own industry, and many people develop lasting friendships because of them. The MCRmy and Killjoys, Echelon, LittleMonsters, KatyCats and Beliebers, to name a few, are all devoted, and mostly, great people. However, when the others- those who may be unstable- are put in a position to DEFEND what they have come to believe is their IDENTITY- trouble ensues.

We’ve all mused about the advantages and disadvantages of social networking and the relatively new horror of cyberbullies. But as we’ve seen in the last few years, from the tragedies of Megan Meier, Alexis Pilkington and Phoebe Prince to the recent rash of music-related incidents, the time for musing is over, and responsibility must be assumed. By everyone.

What one might see as a clever online quip to a faceless individual could be a cutting and hurtful remark to the very real recipient. Not to mention that out-and-out-hatred does just as much damage in type as it does in person- perhaps more so.

We can’t blame ‘society’- we ARE society. We can’t blame one group of people- at one time or another, we’ve all been guilty of a careless “tweet” or “comment”. And we CANNOT wait until more people die or are hurt before we change our actions…And our attitudes.

So, yes- #SingItFor Sniper…and #SingItForShane. But at the same time, #SingItForAllofUs.

Sing it for the World.

Royal Pain?

noreply@blogger.com (VKLynne) — Fri, 15 Apr 2011 22:37:00 +0000

This will most likely be an immensely unpopular opinion.

But I cannot wait for the Royal Wedding.

Ever since I was born with the name Victoria, I fancied that I was destined to be royalty- since we know that in actuality all British royalty inauspiciously emerged from Eastern Pennsylvania.

When I was old enough to understand that I was clearly NOT in line for the throne, I still continued my fascination with it. Let me clarify- with the historical aspects of it. I don’t presume to make any assertion as to whether the institution is good or bad for the United Kingdom politically or economically- that is a thorny issue for heads with far more governmental education than mine.

Click here to read further:

Under the Pink....

noreply@blogger.com (VKLynne) — Thu, 14 Apr 2011 17:49:00 +0000

…lurks what, exactly?

This week, J.Crew ran an advertisement with a photo of company President Jenna Lyons painting her little boy’s toenails pink. Apparently, the child loves pink; they were doing some mom/son hangout time, and decided to go ‘spa day’ with it.

Psychiatrist Keith Ablow stated, “This is a dramatic example of the way that our culture is being encouraged to abandon all trappings of gender identity,” while Media Research Center’s Erin Brown said the photo is “blatant propaganda celebrating transgendered children.”

Seriously? Doesn’t it seem like we’ve gone a bit ’round the bend on this one?

Click here to read entire article

‘Lennon Emails’? Doesn’t quite have the same ring….

noreply@blogger.com (VKLynne) — Sat, 09 Apr 2011 01:16:00 +0000

John Lennon was always writing- songs, poems, letters. This October, a collection of his letters will be published by Little, Brown. Previously, his letters have fetched tens of thousands of dollars at auction, so the demand to see Lennon’s words, written in his own hand, is clearly there.

And though we may not have a mind like John’s in our time- would there be anything to publish 30 years from now if we did?

Click Here to Read More

A State of Nirvana? Or Lost on Mars?

noreply@blogger.com (VKLynne) — Fri, 08 Apr 2011 07:13:00 +0000

(Below is an article published at TheCount.com)

This week Jared Leto took another step into his journey to becoming one of the most polarizing figures in pop culture....
Click here to read more

Modern Chivalry

noreply@blogger.com (VKLynne) — Fri, 01 Apr 2011 02:37:00 +0000

Justice is better than chivalry if we cannot have both.
~Alice Stone Blackwell

This week, I, like many others, read with horror about Iman al-Obeidi's ordeal. Adding insult to injury were the disgusting claims that she is a "promiscuous woman", as if that is an excuse or defense for rape.

As I scanned the comments beneath one of the article's, one jumped out at me. It read "Where are the REAL men; the fathers, brothers, uncles, cousins to take these women's parts?"

That is a question that gives rise to many others. First of all, what do we define as a "REAL man?" If you are speaking in a purely literal sense, many abused women will tell you that the men who committed this act of brutality are, in fact, the very 'reality' of men they see every day. If we are speaking more poetically, what do we define as "The Real Man?" Is it a definition that is attainable, practical...or even fair?

Should a man be responsible for the women around him? Many cultures say yes. But often, along with the care comes control. Other cultures have taken a more 'modern' approach, saying that there is no difference between men and women, and therefore, no such responsibility should be shouldered. Instead, respect, sometimes in inordinate amounts, should be forthcoming.

Certainly, in all philosophies, there are pros and cons on both sides, and moderation and common sense are to be applied.

But it is one sinister belief system, where moderation is little felt and fear rules, that the most conservative shudders and the most liberal shakes with rage.

Women as chattel.
Women as possessions.
Disposable. Dispensable. No rights. No feelings. No voice.

In the western world, we cannot wrap our heads around a society that would starve it's female children, or set fire to its young wives- or ignore the cries of help from a wronged woman.

So many times, we simply say "Well, that is their culture." But is it?

If we measured our American beliefs by the crimes committed against each other and then excused them as "our culture" wouldn't we indeed ourselves- be the criminals?

And furthermore, who is adhering to and creating a culture of hatred and ignorance? Most likely the people perpetrating the violence and silencing the voices of those in a subordinate state that can't speak out and say "This is HIS culture- not MINE."

Cultures change- Yearly, monthly, daily. Dismissing an atrocity in the name of an anciently held belief is not only heartless- it's wrongheaded. Nazi Germany created a culture that we all agreed was so outlandishly evil that it had to be wiped out. Does a wicked culture have to reach out with its poisonous finger and touch us at home before we admit it exists?

I'm not saying that we should go storming into countries where we are unacquainted with the customs and just completely discount and overthrow them because they offend our sensibilities- I'm saying we must pay attention when those customs are offending THEIR sensibilities. When a victim feels that her best option is to appeal to a room full of foreign journalists rather than the law of her own land.

Now, is this something that is a "man's" job? Not entirely, certainly. However, in many nations, where men have the majority of the power, they will have to lead the way in rectifying codes and systems that subjugate women, simply because they have no open avenue to do so themselves without punishment.

But women who live in countries where their voices are heard must raise them. Because silence is tantamount to assent, and we shouldn't fool ourselves that we are immune to oppression- what is tolerated once, will be perpetrated again. With more vehemence, more frequency... and with greater scope.

We, in America, are blessed. We have rights that some women can only dream about. But we can't forget that some of those rights were only won in the last 100 years...And often they are given lip service, at best.

So is "chivalry"...In whatever form that takes...an outdated notion?

In Hollywood, perhaps the most liberal place on earth- I have seen the need for a 'knight in shining armor'.

More than once, a single girlfriend has called and asked to "borrow my husband."
These are strong, intelligent, independent women- but they found themselves in situations where a man was harassing them, stalking them, abusing them- and being in LA, so far from family.... They all said, "If I were at home I'd call my brother/Dad/etc., but..." In each situation, Sean handled it- chivalrously...And to all concerned, he was the hero of the day.

So it appears that chivalry does have a place. But how far does that extend? What can we expect from men? What is their role? It's not one answer.

From my perspective...I think we ALL have a responsibility to take care of EACH OTHER. Man, woman, irrespective of gender, the suffering of one should be cause of concern for us all. Because we all suffer.

And we'll be grateful to have that support back when it's our turn.

There can never be absolute justice. But we should never stop striving for it.

It's the chivalrous thing to do.

Friday?

noreply@blogger.com (VKLynne) — Tue, 29 Mar 2011 00:55:00 +0000

We all know the bad news. The music business is in a shambles, record labels are folding, no one is getting signed anymore, those who are getting signed are getting shelved. Music is dying.

Or is it?

These past 2 weeks we’ve seen a phenomenon in the dubious success of Rebecca Black. And while no one is saying that this is soul-baring, life-changing, awe-inspiring art, what we can say is it has been, by a certain definition: Successful.

Without a label. Without management or A&R. For $2,000, her parents got a song and a video and a world of abuse for their little girl, but reports tell us they’re also raking in the cash to the tune of $27,000 a week in downloads and YouTube views.

Which they’d better be banking for the therapy that child’s going to need in the wake of so much public hatred. But despite all that, it begs the question- Is THIS what our society wants from its musicians? Does it no longer want to empathize, conspire and be challenged by its art, or is it instead satisfied- even delighted to - merely mock?

Are we a world of people who would rather pay to see someone else’s humiliation, what we perceive as another’s failure, than evocative art? Are we more comfortable sneering at those we see as “worse” than us, than finding, in thought-provoking music, our common humanity? If so, the joke’s on us, as we shell out .99 a download to bankroll our outwardly erstwhile, inwardly smug, clowns, and grow increasingly brain-numb as a consequence. Many of these singers admit that they have marginal ‘talent’ anyway; they simply traded on their willingness to look a little foolish, and in that sense, they’ve bested both their patrons and their peers, who’ve been grinding along making music on shoestrings for years, to never see in a lifetime the kind of revenue these novelty acts bring in monthly.

So where does that leave the lyrical poet, the plaintiff musician, the angry rock anarchist? Well, here’s the kicker- probably in a better place than we’d imagine. Because not every music fan is heading to the circus.

What thinking audiophiles are discovering is that although, in the advent of mp3’s, ProTools, MySpace and the like, it became easier than ever for independent artists to get their work ‘out’ … some of it should have stayed in.

Merely being ‘indie’ is not a stamp of nobility, and just because someone’s bought Logic doesn’t mean they should fire up their Shure microphone and start crooning. If the 2000’s were the decade of Do-it-Yourself, the 2010’s are the era of Do-it-With-People-Who-Will-Tell-You-If-It-Sucks.

Nearly anyone can make a hit-of-the-moment. It takes an artist to make an enduring classic. And it isn’t always rewarded in the present. Ask Van Gogh or Poe.

The future?

The overwhelming wave of music being unleashed made it nearly impossible to be heard above the noise. Music enthusiasts barely knew where to start to find quality music that they’d enjoy. But as the hobbyist and dilettante realizes that the music business ISN’T a get-rich quick proposition, and more importantly, as the “anyone can do it” mentality dies down, the true artists will again rise to the surface and get the ears they deserve. And now, they’ve become more savvy, smarter, leaner, faster- they are educated, and they’ve hung on through tremendous pressures and adversities, and they’re ready to rock and work harder than any we’ve seen previously.

And I think we are starting to see that.

Music isn’t dying- it’s had to struggle to survive an upheaval of its industry of nearly Biblical proportions. Like all things that pass through the fire- they come out stronger. Burn off the impurities, and you’re left with pure gold. Remarkably, if we are willing to look and listen, we will see and hear music and artists get BETTER. It will take time…but the public and the industry will notice, and then…anything is possible!

Maybe I’m an optimist, but soon, we may just be able to make our living from our music after all.

Will we ever see the major label, here’s a million bucks, “I’m gonna make you a star, baby” days again? Probably not.

Will “bad” music still get funding? If it has mass appeal, you betcha.

Will it always be about “the bottom line?” In some camps, yes. Take your tent elsewhere.

Will tabloids continually try to sell us on an ‘overnight sensation story’? If you’re buyin’.

Will there always be Rebecca Blacks?

Does every week have a Friday, Friday, Friday…….?

As Good As It Gets

noreply@blogger.com (VKLynne) — Thu, 03 Mar 2011 03:57:00 +0000

The last time I played Philadelphia, years ago, it was in little an Irish bar, packed with just about everybody I ever knew in the city, and me and my acoustic guitar.

It was a cold night, and the bar was cozy and spirits were high: everybody knew everybody, the atmosphere was relaxed, and it was very intimate and informal.

Last Saturday, February 26th, Sean pulled the car up about half a block from the Blockley Pourhouse and we both looked at the mass of humanity on the sidewalk out front, turned and looked at each other, and then said, “You CANNOT go in that front door!”.

He drove around to the back, parked on a side street, and marched inside like Hannibal Smith, where the burly security guard showed him a side artist entrance. We loaded me and my accoutrements in, and he took off to find the booker, while I surveyed the venue….A good comparision would be the Roxy on Sunset, but a bit larger, good lighting, some seating and a merch area with a chipper young lady who took my CD’s and t-shirts and put them alongside those of Gina Sicilia, Christine Santelli, and of course, Beth Hart.

I had finished making these observations when Sean sprinted back to me with all the details of the evening and took me to the dressing room/green room. A case of water, a box of wine, and a bottle of Jack were there, along with Gina, the first act up for the night. She was very sweet, and we chatted before she took the stage.

By this time, the place was a madhouse. The soundman came back to run down what I needed, etc., and told me that the venue was entirely sold out to the tune of 760 tickets. Everyone who worked there was running in different directions; even the owner was seating people, and the pandemonium only added to the overall excitement of the night.

Viv showed up, wide-eyed and smiling. “Dude, this is sick. This place is jammed!” (Viv Peyrat is a local musician who played lead guitar for me for this show- he is AMAZING….he will definitely be playing with me again when I get back east!)

Beth’s manager sauntered into the green room, soon followed by her band. We talked politely, then Scotty, Beth’s husband, swept in with his giant and jolly personality, and everyone was at ease.

Scott is such a positive presence; he seems to always be happy, yet completely grounded, so that you can’t help but feel secure when he’s around…kinda like Mr. Sean McHugh☺

Christine Santelli, a cool chick and a gritty singer, was up on stage by this time, and one of the assistants ran to a convenience store to get me some hot tea. I told her that it wasn’t necessary, but she said “Well, it’s going to be shitty tea- so it’s a fair trade off.”
(Philly girls, woohoo!:)

I finished my makeup, and there was Beth. I hadn’t seen her in a long time, but it didn’t matter; she knew me right away. She gave me that warm, welcoming Beth hug, and we did the “I haven’t seen you in forever!” thing, then she held my arms and said, “Look at you, girl- you look like…A STAR!…Todd, look at these big blue eyes!” I blushed like a little girl, and told her that she looked amazing as well. She said “Really?”, and I fell in love all over again.

Because that’s what won my heart from the start. Beth doesn’t assume that she’s beautiful, or talented or AWESOME- she just IS. And the fact that she’s still insecure to any degree makes me feel better when I am. She personifies my belief in the principle that artists should reflect our shared humanity- and celebrate it. Because that’s when the music can change lives- when the listener knows it came from a similar heart…a similar soul.

The burly security guard came back with a flashlight and said “OK, it’s time to walk you out.”

We walked in the dark down the hallway up the side stairs of the stage and there I was. My friends, family, Whiskey Warriors, and Whiskey Echelon all screamed when they saw my pink and purple head, and away we went. I started snapping the beginning of “The Way it Goes”, and just the fact that I had the temerity to open with an a cappella song caught most folks’ attention.

It’s a bit like opening for the Stones. But to their credit, Beth’s Rotten Friends, who had been outside, in the cold, in line since early in the day, were gracious and welcoming, even though they were more than ready to see their girl!

We finished with Black Halo, to thunderous applause (I’m sure partly because I was done and it meant Beth was on her way!) and headed back to the green room. Scott was at the doorway, and he grinned and applauded; Beth said “How was it out there?” And I said , “Well, once I got past the folks who were ready to shoot me in the fucking face for not being you, it was cool!” She laughed, and said “Oh no, you know, I find that’s always the case when you open; it just depends on whether you get lucky or not!”. Again- I melt.

Sean took me out to say hi, and I signed autographs, took pictures, gave hugs…And sang along like a rabid Rotten Friend when Beth took the stage with ‘Mama’.

But now this blog is getting long.:)

For the first time in a long time, I didn’t want to head back to LA, because this weekend felt so good. I told Sean, “I want to do this every night, every day. Get out there on the road and sing my face off.”

He smiled. “It’s coming.”

We got a Philly soft pretzel and boarded the plane.

The Spider

noreply@blogger.com (VKLynne) — Wed, 09 Feb 2011 07:32:00 +0000

A black box inside my head
With corners, angles…mysteries I can’t bring to light alone.
Pests swarm: flies of discontent, gnats of distraction, beetles and wasps of adversity.

Descends the spider.

Out of the shadows, she soundlessly spins-
This is her time, her feast-
Silvered strands form patterns and shapes,
Encloak the encroachers,
Beautify the struggle.

When all is done, she surveys her work,
And with the most elegant bite to my heart
Brings a drop to her fangs- then retreats.

And I sing.

Cobwebs cleared, darkness again,

In the ineffable…

She waits.

Happy 2011!!! “Somewhere you’ve never been, someplace you’ve never seen.”

noreply@blogger.com (VKLynne) — Mon, 03 Jan 2011 20:26:00 +0000

"If the path be beautiful, let us ask not where it leads." ~Anatole France

Here we are, folks. December 31, 2010, on the eve of a New Year! And most of us, at the beginning of 2010, could never have predicted where we would be at this moment!

Which is what is so awe-inspiring about the journey- you can't see to the end of the road, because if you could, you would lose immeasurably: the excitement of suspense, the strength to be found in hope and faith, the character to be gained from disappointment.

And I'm not going to lie to you and say that I'm not disappointed. Because I am. But that's part of life and part of this business. It's not the first time, and it won't be the last.

Many times I have been frustrated by a situation that didn't go as I'd have liked, only to discover months down the line that another way was better, or that the way I'd planned could even have led to disaster. The Good Lord knows what He's doing; even if we don't always know what He's doing:)

And as much as we believe in the power of following one's dreams, there is a very tangible and very practical side to this business of music. We don't know what factors were involved in the plans for New Year's Eve, and I wouldn't begin to hazard a guess. But I do know that things happen- or don't happen- for a reason. And in this case, it must not have been meant to be.

However, the path has been beautiful! I am humbled and blessed by the people I have met, and now call friends, that I might not have ever known, had I not undertaken this adventure! And believe me- your voices WERE HEARD. Maybe not in the way we'd hoped...But heard no less!

By me, by the others you shared the music with, by countless people who were brought together these last 2 months by a common purpose and a common belief. And THAT is what art is about. Our shared humanity. In whatever form it takes.

And many forms it did take! I sat down and tried to list everyone who contributed, and I couldn't do it without either writing a 3-page blog or being sure to leave someone out. However, I'll give it a shot! First let me say this: The Whiskey Warriors, The Echelon, and those who became The Whiskey Echelon are some of the most generous, supportive, loving people I know.

Some were my evening Twitter chat posse, others ripped video (Kacie!) and designed avatars (Sophie!) and wrote 3-part articles and blogs (Buffy and the French Echelon!). Others were cheerleaders sending me quotes (Sara!) and tweeting their faces off to get the word out (Chloe!). And others wrote poetry (Scarlet!) and sent such encouragement, there was no way I could give up! (Annette, Karla, Alyxa, Anissa, Elizabeth, Michelle, Ray, Artemis, Antje, Clive, Caits, Vanessa, Janice, Rev & the Mrs., Gizem, Claudi, Wonetka, Miranda, Jane, Marta, Lauren, Rhiannon, Ade, Gerry, Fergus, Angela, Lisa, Shanice, Jenno, Iris, Mary, Sol, Cindy, Nadia, Korrine...) And of course, the remainder of the 342 amazing people who not only signed the Twitition, but asked their friends to do so as well. To all of you, thank you from the bottom of my heart.

Extra special thanks to the Whiskey Divas- Tricia (PR rep. extraordinairre), Jette (Holland), Susana (Spain), Kimberly (US), and Liuba (Greece), who each went above and beyond, spreading the word and the music to their respective regions. At one point, they were literally tweeting around the clock in shifts it seemed; my iPhone was constantly aquiver.:) Someday, girls- drinks on me!:)

...Because the path goes on! We have big plans for 2011, not the least of which is a new record, which we are VERY excited about. My writing has taken a decidedly harder edge, and we don't want to give away too much now, but suffice it to say...

Be sure to wear a belt, because we plan to rock your ass off.

In the meantime, I will be be playing in the SoCal area and streaming whenever possible. We'll definitely keep you up to date!

And so- Happy New Year, my friends!

Follow your hearts; follow your dreams, regardless of the outcome. There is beauty to be found in every moment, if only we will seek it.

"Don't turn around. Where you go becomes the place you'll be."

Love, VK

UPDATE: Ma and the Mastectomy

noreply@blogger.com (VKLynne) — Mon, 09 Aug 2010 23:01:00 +0000

In June, you can taste the east coast air. You can also grab a handful of it and use it in lieu of hair gel.

I hadn't been back to PA in the summertime since 2003. And it wasn't a joyful occasion. I felt oppressed by the heat, and oppressed by the anxiety attached to cancer invading my beloved mother.

This was the state of the atmosphere when I got off the plane in Philadelphia a few weeks ago. My high school boyfriend (and still good friend) picked me up at the airport and took me to my childhood home about an hour and 15 minutes outside of Philly. I was disoriented and feeling strangely 17 again when I walked into the house.

Ma was not as chipper as I would have liked, but it was understandable- losing a breast is no small matter, and as the day drew closer, even our family's customary dark humor couldn't dispel the reality of the situation.

I gave her the card with all the wonderful words of support and sympathy that so many of you good folks sent, and the donations made for her health care, and she was astonished. She said "But this one and this one and......they don't even know me!" She was deeply touched, and, as I hoped, the realization that so many people, many of them strangers, cared enough to help her, in a recession(!!!), moved and cheered her.

However, Ma and I went for a walk around Birdsboro the night before the surgery, and that's when she let slip the admission that her last mammogram had been in 2004.

I flipped out. I had been consoling myself with the notion that this was her first bad mammogram, and so we were obviously catching the cancer early. But 2004? When the doctor cut into her, what would he find?

Thank God, he found no more than what I'd originally hoped for- the beginnings of cancer, which he was able to remove. In fact, she did not even need chemo, and was a good little patient from start to finish. We watched her every day to make sure that there wasn't too much blood coming through the tube attached to a small drainage bulb (kind of like a plastic grenade). And we chased her down to REST, while she evaded us like Bugs Bunny and scurried about trying to do things around the house.

Her only complaint has been that she feels a bit lopsided. This was met with our hugely inappropriate rejoinder that now she was a proper Amazon woman, set for a new bow and arrow, and archery practice, which would now be better than ever.

She promised to keep me a'BREAST' of things, to which I admonished her not to be a 'BOOB', and life went on in our bizarre family unit.

We dodged a bullet.

But, as my brother said, "Let's not do this again, shall we?" From now on, mammograms WILL be done regularly. And yes, I will even drag my perky rack to the the squashing machine to make sure all is clear on my end.

Ladies- PLEASE do the same. Although Ma is fine and fit, she will always have to be mindful: of her limitations when flying, of having her blood pressure taken...of a surprisingly large scar and a space where a part of her used to be. Breast cancer is very treatable, yes, but it is still life-changing. Catch it early if you can.

This week Ma was given the all-clear to get her new mastectomy bra, which will even out the landscape, so to speak. My sister and I thought it would be great for her to get an impressive Playboy-bunny bosom, but Ma was not enticed. She'll settle for just being even.

May it be said of all of us.

Female Music Singers: New Interview With VK Lynne on FemaleMusicSingers....

noreply@blogger.com (VKLynne) — Sat, 07 Aug 2010 01:41:00 +0000

Female Music Singers: New Interview With VK Lynne on FemaleMusicSingers....: "I recently had the chance to get to know this fabulous female music singer not long ago. I was so moved by VK Lynne's music that I decided ..."

Long Train Running

noreply@blogger.com (VKLynne) — Thu, 22 Jul 2010 03:49:00 +0000

"Meet Virginia"

Exactly 13 years ago, Sean and I took the leap from 'like' to 'love'. And as I sat tonight at the OC Fair, listening to Pat Monahan sing, I reflected on the past decade and change, and how we've changed...and stayed the same.

Train is a motif in our relationship. Sean discovered them with 'Meet Virginia' back when we were still living in South Philly, in a walkup apartment at 4th and Catherine that we thought was the edgiest artist nook in town. It was a surprise, because when I met him , Sean was a seasoned connoisseur of hip/hop & R&B. However, he took to the band immediately; I dismissed them as a one-hit-with-a-novelty-kind-of-song act, and went on with my raging Melissa Etheridge addiction that was at its zenith then. About this time, both of us were coming to the realization that for an actor and a musician, Philly wasn't the best place to be.

"I think I'm moving to Idaho- or Santa Barbara."

We moved to LA with our roommate Mike, also an actor. Almost immediately, Sean was cast as the lead in 'This Is Our Youth' in Santa Barbara. Which was great, except he had to live there for three months while I had to stay in our new apartment in Van Nuys, working. However, it turned out to be one of the best summers we ever had; I drove up every weekend, and we'd spend his days off exploring the beaches, State Street, etc. And on my way back to the Valley, to 'keep him with me', I'd put his copy of Drops of Jupiter in the car CD player. Train was growing on me, as an extension of him.

" Don't give up on me- I'm about to come alive"

Finally we married and moved out on our own. We were living in what we now call "The Box", a 'Jr. one bedroom' apartment in Winnetka. If you stood at a certain spot in the middle, you could see every corner of the place simply by pivoting on that spot at different angles. But we were newly married, it was all ours, and the rent couldn't have been lower.

Unfortunately, Sean's diabetes was becoming more and more unmanageable. It seemed completely indifferent to his impeccable diet, his diligent workouts, his careful monitoring of his sugar. Type 1 Diabetes is a brutal taskmaster- He was tired, grey, at turns listless then snappish- and losing weight at a frightening pace. His doctor finally convinced me to convince him that his best option was an insulin pump.

Although uneasy at first, Sean soon improved exponentially, and the thousands of dollars we'd put on a credit card to purchase the beeper-sized machine seemed like nothing compared to having him back again, jolly and energetic. And as if it was a gift from Pat himself, My Private Nation was released.

I remember cooking dinner while Sean took a shower, with the CD playing through for the first time in the bathroom (of course I could hear it perfectly....remember- "Box"?;). I only half-listened, while Sean analyzed. I was making my own CD, Black Halo, at the time, and I was wrapped up in all that it entailed. Then one night I came home tired as Sean was singing along with Train; I made an offhand remark, and he became incredibly emotional; his sugar was dangerously low, and after some juice and lying down for a few minutes, we talked more calmly. He told me that the songs made him think of me, think of us- our situation. I suddenly realized that this music really meant something to him on a gut level, and so, I would have to give it a more thoughtful listen.

The next day, I drove slowly around Canoga Park doing my errands, with tears running down my face as I listened to "I'm about to come alive". This was what he meant. All the pieces fell together. I got it.

From that point on, Train was our band. "The Box" was in a bit of a 'dodgy' neighborhood, and many a night we would just go to Woodland Hills and drive around the park with the windows and sunroof open to look at the stars with "When I Look to the Sky" playing at top volume. We "Followed Rita" up the 101 to Visalia to visit friends on Thanksgiving. My band was doing a weekly residency; Sean had gotten a promotion at work- things looked bright.

(During this time, we had a memorable Train incident- Sean's birthday came around, and I was delighted to find that Train would be playing the Wiltern. We got tickets and made sure we were there early enough to station ourselves right at the front of the stage. We chatted with some other couples about what song they'd open with as the pit started filling up. The concert began, and I was thrilled that Sean was getting such a great birthday present...that is, until I saw a thin arm wrap around his shoulder. I looked over, and a slatternly blond with a beer in hand was leaning against him and trying to wriggle up beside him. I said, "Do you know her?" He disentangled himself and said "No- I think she's trying to cut in front of us." And try she did. She and her equally drunken friend began pushing between us and trying to cozy up to him, and the man standing next to him, so they could get closer to the stage. Sean firmly told them "We've been here for hours. We're not letting you cut in front of us." The brunette of the two said, "Why are you so uptight? Just let us in front of you." Then she nearly toppled over. The man on the other side of Sean said "I'm with you- they're not getting past me."
At this point, I was pretty ticked. This was supposed to be Sean's night, and these tipsy trollops were disrupting everybody. Sean gently put me in front of him to keep me calm, and put his arms around me. "Don't worry, they'll get tired of bugging us and - ouch!" I snapped around to see his head jerk back; the brunette had pinched him on the neck in a reckless last ditch effort...however, she didn't count on me- because after that there was no containing me. I cocked my fist back and swung over Sean's shoulder; he caught my fist in the air. I ripped it away, gave him a look that made his hair stand on end, pushed him to the side, poked my finger in the girl's face and said "You need to back up, bitch, right now." I was ready to stand on her hair and she WOULD know my name. They both scurried away with the blond saying, "It's not worth it, it's not worth it, that girl's crazy." Around us, the other people slowly started clapping.
I was still pretty full of adrenaline, but I managed to smile and return my focus to Pat. The last time we saw the girls they were both on their knees, crawling through people's legs at the other end of the pit to try to get to the stage.
During some stage banter, Pat mentioned he was from PA, and Sean hooted. He said "Where are you from?" And Sean yelled, "Philly!" Pat leaned out and shook his hand, "I'm Pat", he said. "Sean". The audience laughed, and it was the perfect capper to a very eventful evening.
The next day I heard Sean on the phone with his brother. He was saying, "Dude, she SWUNG!! She SWUNG!")

"When it rains, it pours and floods the floors"

Summer was waning, and we went to Laguna Beach to see a friend's play and spend the weekend with him. We stayed out late after the play, laughing and drinking, then went to bed to sleep in before heading back to LA. However, at 6:00 am, Sean's cell phone rang- It was his aunt telling us his mother had had a massive heart attack that morning and died instantly.
When someone who has been sick for a long time passes away, it is tragic, but there is time to wrap your head around the inevitable. When it happens without warning, it may be more merciful for the deceased, but for those he or she leaves behind, it is staggering, ravaging, halting. Sean was blindsided, and we were 3,000 miles away.

We got to PA as quickly as air travel would allow; because it was last minute, we had many stops and layovers; and 13 hours later we arrived at PHL, exhausted and drained. Sean was the rock that he always is for his family, but I knew that inside he was lava. I tried to keep his spirits up and be a mini rock for him when I could.

Over the next few years, he often kept his own counsel. He's not one to feel sorry for himself, or get bogged down in sad things. But it would hit him at unexpected times, and I would try to draw him out. Little by little, he allowed himself to grieve, and we both took a more sober look at the blessings in our lives.

We decided to move out of "The Box"; the neighborhood was degenerating, our financial situation had improved, and we wanted the change. We moved into a rear house in North Hollywood, and Sean promptly lost his job.

This was another shock to his system. We became more active in our church, and Sean poured his energy into running their audio. The bills began piling up; we fretted.

My now new band began garnering more and more attention; Sean got a new manager and commercial agent. It seemed that things had begun to turn around. I bought Sean "For Me, it's You" for his birthday.

But this time, Train didn't have the unifying effect it had before. Our professional situations, at first blush, were positive upward moves, but they became increasingly negative and divisive, and we were both irritable and on edge. Our fiscal resources were tapped as Sean's unemployment drug on, and I decided to go on a diet and not come back. Anorexia, debt, anger, resentment- we were losing who we fundamentally were, and only brief moments, when "Always Remember" would take Sean back into his grief, and I would console him, brought us back to the reality of who we used to be.

"Move on, you know we'll be stronger in the end."

I'd like to say there was a moment, a song, a 'switch' that clicked to bring us out of it- but there wasn't. There was a gradual series of awakenings; and, slowly, we cleared out the negative people and things that had somehow cluttered our lives. And once that process was done, we could see each other clearly again- and we'd never looked so good.

The next few years were filled with rebuilding- Sean was working again, I set about getting healthy, writing and organizing new songs. We created and filmed a web series, and we met new, positive people. I eventually went to Denmark to record a new CD, and set about promoting it.

Christmas came, and I bought "Save Me, San Francisco" for Sean. Although I listened to it about 10 times before I gave it to him:). It was everything we'd hoped it would be, and so when we saw that the band would be at the OC Fair, on our 13 year anniversary, we bought the tickets, and tucked them away.

2 months later my mother was diagnosed with breast cancer.
I got on a plane, and stayed 2 weeks with her as she had a mastectomy. Two days into my stay in PA, Sean called- he'd been fired.
I was so tired that I couldn't even be stunned. I just felt numb. Everything was falling apart- again.
And I could have gone down that road- but the Good Lord said "No. No more."

Mom recovered nicely. I flew back to LA. Sean and I took a good hard look at our finances, and our lives. Opportunities were materializing for me musically, and we knew that suddenly we were at a crossroads.

Sean got a new job. I took on more work. And we made a plan to downsize, cut back, reorganize, and do whatever it takes to get "Whiskey or Water" out to the world. So it can do for the world what Train has done for us.

"I'll open up and be your parachute- and I'll never let you down."

Last night, I sat in the ampitheatre, as Pat Monahan told the audience that this was the biggest crowd Train had ever played to- and he thanked us for being part of it. And I looked around at all these people singing their songs- What were there stories? What events had brought them here? Were they new "Hey Soul Sister" fans? Or were they one of the only people on their feet during "Mississippi" like we were?

Then I thought about 3 years ago- when "For Me, it's You" came out- and for most accounts, it failed commercially. And so did we. And Pat went solo. And to some degree, so did we. And the Train stopped running.

Yet here they are, tonight, with the biggest hit of their career, playing to the biggest crowd of their lives.
Things can change. They can ALWAYS change.

I looked at Sean, and thanked God for every minute of the last 13 years. I can't wait for the next 13. And the 13 after that. And the 13 after that.
Change is coming- 'things are gonna look up'.

"I won't give up- if you don't give up".

I never know who I am, until I stare into this glass...

noreply@blogger.com (VKLynne) — Sat, 03 Jul 2010 21:16:00 +0000

Tomorrow all of us in the U.S. celebrate our independence...on a smaller scale, I do as well- the 4th of July I became independent of my mother's womb.

It's been quite a year, and this last month has packed in any last bits of challenge that hadn't made their ways into the other 11. So perhaps it's appropriate that as I start another chapter in this VK Lynne story, I am reminded again of who I am- good and bad.

Whiskey or Water is more than a song for me- it's the most important thing I've ever learned about this earthly life, it's the explanation for all the mistakes I've made, it's really, in a nutshell, who I am. To know and feel this song is to know VK Lynne.

So it became the title track and my anthem, my mantra, my modus operandi. Thus when my friend PJ, filmmaker fantastique, called and said "Let's make a music video", we decided on Whiskey or Water...It was the best choice for a first video, because it very clearly introduces- me.

PJ Gaynard, the jolly mastermind behind , Goat Milk Fudge Productions was first brought into my sphere as a replacement DP on our web series, Trading on 15. His work, and overall awesome personality, was so unimpeachable that we continued past the first 3 agreed upon episodes, and shot the next 2- which will be completed and up on the new Trading on 15 website soon- but that's another blog:).

PJ is a full-steam ahead, shoot first, ask questions later kinda guy, which I dig the hell out of, and so, even though we had NO budget, and neither of us had the extra time, we set about shooting.

We were blessed with locations that serendipitously appeared from kind, generous friends- Jessica Duffy and Clark Schaefer happened to have a baby grand piano in their garage that they were willing to let us shoot in, and Jessica "Playbunny" Duenas and Ozzy of the Tribe not only allowed us to take over their home and the fabulous 'O'Bar that Ozzy built himself, but Bunny also appeared in the video.

We'd gotten the Whiskey, but we still needed the Water, so I turned to the owner of the largest body of water that I knew, Brad Myers. Brad played bass for me for 4 years, and has had and will have rambling philosophical discussions in his hot tub with me, hopefully, for many more...he and his wife Debi allowed us use of their backyard and pool, and voila! The shooting wrapped.

And now here it- so, in honor of the many birthdays that the 4th of July brings, I give you Whiskey or Water- the first video from the CD. I hope you enjoy it, and if you do, please share it with your friends, enemies, relatives- anyone who might need a little whiskey:)

Or water.

CLICK HERE FOR WHISKEY OR WATER