Miss Anthrope's House of High Drama

Jobbery

2012-01-22T11:56:00.003-05:00

Jobbery. Le job. Employment. The glory of a paycheck. Credit card bills. FICO scores.

So most of my friends and facebook pals know that I put in my notice at my job last week. It is maybe not that interesting of a topic for a blog but it's my blog and I'm obsessing so let's get on with it:

I have a job that looks perfect for me on paper: I am surrounded by creative, talented, often funny people; I am paid decently; I have health insurance; I was able to cut my hours down to 4 days a week in order to do my writing on the side. My place of employment is within walking distance to my house. I get my hair done for free. I don't have to be there until 11 am.

So--what's the problem? Without getting too specific, I will say that I have never been fully comfortable in the position, but stayed for a decade because of the above. I have always felt that the interpersonal energies did not fully resonate with my own, especially as I move toward a more spirit-based mode of dealing with my problems. I want peace and kindness around me, and fashion does not necessarily foster those qualities. I am not interested in manipulating numbers, and as the money girl that's what I do all day long. I also no longer agree with the retail business model, in which inexpensive items are bought in bulk, to be sold in bulk, and discarded soon afterward. I feel that our planet is ready for a new way of thinking about how we make, use, sell, and discard the things we need and desire. The fur thing got to me too, as much as I have squawked over the years, I have never been able to convince my fashionable co-workers that they don't need a tail from a tortured creature hanging off of their purse, a purse which was probably made by children anyway.

So there you go. And this year my inner voice has been screaming, SCREAMING at me to make a change and seek work that better utilizes my particular skills and spirit. Let go, let go, let go. Just do it. I started hearing the word "TRUST" over and over again in my head. It almost ceased to be a choice and more an issue of when and how, although logically this is foolhardy, suicidal even in this economy.

Storm Large and I had a conversation a few months ago that snapped something awake in my brain. We were walking through a warm city night, and I explained to her that one of my coworkers calls the office I work in "the chicken house" because it is packed tight with bodies and there is a lot of squawking going on. Storm said, "But you are not a chicken. You are a unicorn."

This dumb/cute little sentence was like an alarm clock. To indulge with another metaphor, I have been a square peg jamming myself in a round hole for quite some time.

So I emailed my version of notice, which is a 3 month warning as my position is sensitive and it would damage people I care about to up and leave in the traditional two weeks. Plus, I have nothing lined up and I need time to get my shit together as well. But still, I am jumping without a net and acutely aware that in three months time I may be forcing my poor club-owning ex-boyfriend to give my old ass bartending shifts, something I swore I would never do again.

I purposely sent the email out five minutes before leaving the house to see Storm sing a show at Poisson Rouge, because she has been so instrumental in helping me see that change is due, and because I knew watching her would take my mind off of the inevitable, ensuing panic. I hate change. Hate it! It sends me into a tizzy every time.

Her performance was great (of course) and she gave me a lot of shout outs from the stage. It was a two part show and I had time to imbibe a decent amount of alcohol. After the show she signed copies of her book for people, and as I sat next to her she again very generously told her fans that I am amazing, hilarious, genius, and to keep an eye out for me.

When we got home I melted down onto the bed in a drunken heap. The cats looked on with disdain and the dog looked worried as I wailed to Drew, "I can't live up to this. I can't do anything. I don't know who I am. I don't know what to do. I feel like the biggest piece of shit inside and I can't be that person that people think I am. Why are you even here? You can do better!" It probably came out much slurrier than that, but after so many years of dealing with me he gets it. He pushed me back on the pillow and simply said, "Everything is fine. Get some sleep, you'll feel better in the morning."

And I did. Well, not immediately. There was an interim of playing Skyrim for six hours in a dazed and depressed hangover funk to keep from thinking about anything. I married my lovely wife in that time, btw, her name is M'joll and she's really good with two-handed weapons:

Then I managed to put the controller down (the batteries ran out) and shook my head out a bit and thought, wow, no wonder I've been so terrified to make a move. Even after all these years of affirmations, therapy, choosing healthy relationships, eating green superfoods, and navel-gazingly cultivating constant reassurance through the interweb, I still secretly fear that I am unworthy. GAH!! I'm going to die penniless and alone!!

Sigh...but that old mentality must be ignored in order to soldier forth. And part of the reason for putting this down for all to see is that I know many of you are held back by the same fears. If we can all say it out loud to each other, maybe the illusive power dissipates.

I will leave you with this, words from my wise mother:

"Panic at this point is perfectly normal, bravery is going ahead in spite of it. The world has lived in the energy of the third dimension (duality and separation) in all lifetimes. That is why this shift is so important and is being observed by so many Galactics, it has never been done like this before with people still in their bodies.

You are right, in recognizing that old "stuff" is presenting itself so you can simply recognize it and then let it go. Energy that is general can release without us having to know what it is, but issues that need thought come to our conscious awareness so we can look at them and work through whatever beliefs are attached to them. I like to ask myself, "What am I believing that is making me feel this way?" This will open a whole can of worms about your belief system and helps you to zero in on a lot of crap that you don't even realize you are holding on to. When I say you, I mean all of us.

It is time to start loving yourself. That is because yourself, is YOURSELF. That is the ongoing evolutionary lesson and is this current shift from metaphysics (God outside of ourselves) to mysticism (God within). When we react negatively to praise, we are recognizing that we ourselves really aren't as great as what is being said about us and we hope no one notices, but once we are able to acknowledge that yes, even though of myself I really am nothing, the real ME can do anything (because my Oneness with Source constitutes my Oneness with completeness). We can then begin to accept and love ourselves and our individual talents knowing that they are qualities of Source manifesting as us and can only get better as we grow in the realization of this. The more we realize the truth about ourselves, it gradually becomes our state of consciousness and the old just drops away. It is like thinking 4 plus 4 is 10 until one day we realize it is 8. From then on we function from this new awareness."

Namaste, bitches. And thank you for all of the kind words on facebook, you are extraordinarily generous people.

Uncle Cranky's Excellent Adventure

2012-01-10T20:54:00.000-05:00

Ever get the feeling that your friends are leading more exciting lives than you? I know mine are:

from:		unclecranky
to:		MISS Raffaele
date:		Sun, Jan 8, 2012 at 8:27 PM

CHANG MAI, THAILAND

ALL IS GOOD,

I AM NORTH OF THE FLOODING, IT IS DOWN IN SOUTHERN THAILAND, WE HAVE A CHARTER IN PHUKET, SOME OF THEM HAD TROUBLE GETTING NORTH TO BANGKOK TO LEAVE WITH US ON TIME, BUT IT ALL WORKED OUT. HAD A WILD NEW YEARS EVE PARTY, MY EARS ARE STILL NUMB FROM ALL THE FIREWORKS I LIT OFF. I RODE SOME ELEPHANTS, MADE FRIENDS WITH SOME MONK IN THE MOUNTAINS WITH 80 FULL GROWN TIGERS (TIGER SANTUARY) AND HUNG OUT ON SOME BEACH IN THE MOUNTAINS, THAT WAS VERY NICE. I AM UP IN CHANG MAI TODAY AT NEAR THE TOP OF THAILAND AND WILL HEAD FURTHER NORTH TOMORROW. WE HAVE ABOUT 35 GUYS ON BIKES WITH ME (SOME H.A. FROM OTHER COUNTRIES, AND A THAI BIKE CLUB CALLED DEVILS MESSENGERS TRAVELING WITH US) WILL RIDE AROUND THE COUNTRY TILL NEXT WEEK.

THE POLICE IN CHANG MAI GAVE US A POLICE ESCORT AROUND TOWN COMPLETE WITH LIGHTS AND SIRENS, ''THEY WERE TOLD WE ARE FAMOUS''....dumb bastards! WE WILL RIDE TO THE ''NORTHERN MOST POINT OF THAILAND, CONTINUE ALONG THE ''GOLDEN TRIANGLE'' MEETING POINT OF ''BURMA - ''LAOS'' - AND ''THAILAND'' AND FOLLOW THE ''MAE KONG RIVER'' SOUTH, FOR A BIT, THEN BACK DOWN TO BANGKOK. LONG TRIP WITH LOTS OF MILES. BE BACK SOON.

Holy Crap. It's 2012!

2012-01-07T16:04:00.000-05:00

Happy New Year!

My apologies for not blogging much lately (for those of you who care). I have three more shows with Bebe coming up in February and I've been alternating between sitting frozen in a panic state (i.e. watching cute cat and bunny videos on facebook) or festering about what to write (i.e. playing Skyrim for hours) that could work in a public forum.

There are random things roiling around in my fevered brain that cross my mind to blog about, but it feels to me that the first entry of the year should be on an up, positive, let's-do-this-thing kind of note.

So--2012 is finally here. The year of the shift, the year of ascension. Feels the same to me, and then again, it doesn't.

I am nowhere near qualified to tell you what is happening, nor am I 100% positive that the people who seem to be qualified really are. But if you want some deep information on the move from third dimensional to fifth dimensional consciousness that is supposed to be taking shape, here is a blog that you can check out.

http://www.thinkwithyourheart.net/category/updates/

It contains some very advanced information, so don't get discouraged if you get confused. I have to read it in small sections and even then I still feel like an idiot.

I just found this today, and it's pretty cool:

http://www.lightomega.org/Fifth-Dimensional-Awareness.html

And my mother has a blog that I am not going to post the link to right now, as it contains some deep concepts and she's my mommy and I want to protect her from people who might not be ready for it. If you are interested you can email me and I'll be happy to give you the link.

If you are interested in this kind of thing, you can google "2012 shift", "fifth dimensional consciousness", anything along those lines, and you'll get pages and pages of information about the changes that are supposed to have been and/or currently are taking place.

I would like to share with you, from my own tiny corner and for the new year, some things that work for me that you can put into practice in your own life. DISCLAIMER: This is not to imply that I think I have it all sewn up. Just that in not always having my shit together, I've learned some stuff that can be safely passed on without danger of hurting anyone.

First, stop talking crap about yourself, your life, and your future. Stop it. Stop complaining, and start stating, in the present tense, how you want things to manifest. In other words, ye olde positive affirmation.

My mother tells me that our guides cannot make any decisions for us, they can only help us facilitate our decisions. So we must state our intent and then be open to letting it happen:

I choose to have a pleasant, easy flight.
I work with people I like, in a job that fulfills my creative and financial needs.

I am happy and healthy.

I love my body.

I am surrounded by people who want the best for me.

I am safe and loved.

I have a lot of fun.

Etc., etc. Whatever it is, put it in the present tense and state it in a positive manner. Try not to be so specific that you screw yourself, because sometimes the Universe has better plans for us than we do for ourselves, and it's nice to stay open to surprises. E.g. "I choose to work in an environment that most closely resonates with my energy." as opposed to not having a stitch of musical talent and shouting into the wind, "I'm gonna be more famous than Gaga!"

Say these affirmations out loud. A lot. And don't get all pissy when it doesn't happen overnight. But you will be surprised at how much does happen.

I have noticed that when I put out some random happy statement on facebook, most people will concur, but there will always be a small contingent that is not feeling it. For instance: "Life is good. =)". One person wrote "Whatever..." Of course that was an ex-boyfriend. One wrote "Wine?" And that would be my ex-husband, who knows me so well. And then another friend just wrote "Eh..." and I felt a little sad for him.

If you are writing "Eh..." on the sky of life (or facebook) right now, you are probably not creating a mental state in which life will feel good. Our thoughts really do manifest in our outer world. Even if you don't believe that their vibrations change things on a quantum physics level, the actions that will naturally follow a thought like "Eh..." are not going to take you anywhere too wonderful. I know we all feel like that at times, I'm a cranky, people-hating bitch and will be happy to sit with you and rant over a cocktail or two. But it can't hurt to take a look at where your thoughts have led you so far, and whether they could use an overhaul.

Second, and along the same line, take responsibility for the energy you are creating in your life. It's probably safe to say that most people don't just magically land in jail or addicted to drugs or screaming at someone in the grocery store. Especially in America, where we are, for the most part, given many freedoms. Your actions create the life around you. You draw people into your sphere that vibrate comfortably with your energy.

So if your energy is unhappy, selfish, blaming, shitty, that is what is going coming back at you. Are you giving, giving, giving and feeling exhausted and resentful because you don't feel it's reciprocated? This is because you are sending out the message that you are unworthy of love as you are, without doing everyone's chores, and it answers in kind. Do you play the victim when bad things happen? Bad things happen to all of us no matter how positive we try to remain, and if you live in victim-mode you will never get the lesson that those situations are meant to bring. And then you will repeat the damn lesson over and over again in various forms until you get it. I am a pro at not getting it the first or second time, so I know whereof I speak. "Oh, thank you for that pebble, but I didn't really feel it. Do you think you could throw a brick at my head instead? How about a wall? Do you have a wall you could drop on me?"

And lastly, lest this blog get too long and preachy: Be nice to yourself. Be kind to your body. Meaning:

--Be grateful for what you have.

--Eat healthy most of the time. Don't fill your body with processed crap that makes you feel cranky and unhappy. Especially now, as we move toward a more crystalline form (if you believe that). If you must eat a lot of meat, spend the money on free-range, free of antibiotics, slightly less suffering. Eat your gd vegetables. Shitty food carries shitty energy, and you are what you eat. Literally.

--Stop smoking. Please. Nothing good will come of it and it makes you smell bad. And yes, I know how awesome it is and how hard it is to quit. I loved smoking and was a 1-2 pack a day girl for many years. Don't beat yourself up if you're having a hard time quitting, but please keep trying.

--Stop abusing your medications. You know who you are.

--Stop hating your body and face in an attempt to shame yourself into more self control, or pointing the flaws out loud before someone else can beat you to it. I know it's hard. I do it too, but it only holds us back. Be grateful for a healthy body that has carried you through this world. There are many people, at least one I know that will read this blog, that would be very grateful for the gift of health, in whatever pear or apple shape it came in.

--Stop sitting in relationships and jobs (another form of relationship) that make you feel badly about yourself. This is hard with family and old friends, and we all need to make a living. But pay attention to your surroundings and whether they serve you, and if not, create an escape plan or stop calling the person back.

Okay, that's all I can think of for now. Sending you all lots of love and light. I'm so grateful for my little group of readers, communicating with you is educational and brings much joy, so I thank you for your generosity of spirit.

Happy New Year 2012!

Jerky Christmas

2011-12-23T10:02:00.000-05:00

ME (Turning on overhead light while Drew is sleeping): HEY!

DREW (squinting): What?? Turn that off, it's too bright.

ME: Are we going to have a good Christmas?

DREW: You tell me. Are we?

ME: We are if you can stop being a jerk. That's why I'm asking.

DREW: Well I'm asking too. I'm not being a jerk. Are you going to stop being a jerk?

ME: I'M not being a jerk. You're being a jerk.

DREW: You're the jerk. Turn the light off.

ME: Not until you say you're going to stop being a jerk.

DREW: Okay, you're going to stop being a jerk.

(pause)

ME: Light's still on.

DREW: All right. I'll stop being a jerk! Turn it off!

ME: Okay, then we're going to have a good Christmas.

(light goes off)

DREW (quiet voice from the dark bedroom): You know, some people might say that only a JERK would turn the light on like that.

ME: I can't hear you! But since you're up, wanna watch Scrooge?

More Unicorns and Rainbows

2011-12-17T11:27:00.000-05:00

I have a friend who is a member of a certain well known motorcycle club and I'm constantly trying to incorporate him into my writing world somehow because he's always angry but in the most hilarious kind of way that I find completely entertaining. He, of course, will have nothing to do with my shenanigans, which have included trying to steal his overseas bike trip itineraries (to scan and post because they look so cool) and grilling him about his sex life.

I want to make him an internet star, but as he is a one percenter in the traditional sense of the term, and living a truly interesting rebel life, he wants nothing to do with my nonsense. So I figure I'll just post our text and email rounds here once in a while, as those are pretty funny on their own:

ME:
Just drunkenly fell on my knee outside BE. That guy JT is the bomb. Love you!
December 9 1:15am

HIM:
HA HA. YOU DRUNKEN TWAT.
December 9 1:21am

ME:
Totally, and FUCK YOU!
December 9 1:22am

HIM:
IT'S L.T. NOT J.T. ANYWAY.
December 9 1:41am

ME:
Whatevs! Awesome to see you. xoxoxoxo
December 9 1:42am
[Ed note: Yes, I did text "whatevs". And yes, I hate myself for it.]

HIM:
XXX. DEAR BLOGGIES, HAD A WONDERFUL NIGHT OUT. GOT ALL DOLLED UP IN AN ELEGANT BLACK COCKTAIL DRESS, ADDED THE COCKTAILS AND THEN ROLLED IN THE GUTTER WITH THE BUMS ON THE BOWERY.
December 9 10:29am

ME:
Goddamnit, I was going to leave that part out.
December 9 10:35am

HIM:
STICK TO THE SHORT VERSION GIRL. NOBODY READS THE FINE PRINT AND DETAILS ANYMORE...YOUR EDITOR, UNCLE CRANKY. XX
December 9 10:45am

------------------

HIM:
DEAR PRINCESS STUMBLE BUM, I NEED MARIA'S PHONE NUMBER. I'M SURE THAT YOU GOT IT IN YOUR LITTLE SOCIAL BUTTERFLY, POCKET FILE CABINET. THANK YOU SUGAR DUMPLING.
December 13 11:23am

ME:
How dare you interrupt my regal slumber as I sit upon a royal vinyl throne in the New York City jury pool? Now I must sit here semi-awake and pray for swift release. Her number is XXX-XXX-XXXX.
December 13 11:25am

HIM:
LET THEM KNOW WHO'S TEXTING YOU AND THEY WILL GIVE YOU AN ESCORT OUT OF THERE, AND SOME CAB FARE HOME OR TO THE CLOSEST GIN MILL OF YOUR CHOICE. I GOTTA GO MUG SOMEONE.
December 13 11:44am

ME:
I thought about that! You are always full of good ideas and now maybe you'll get me out of jury duty.
December 13 11:47am

HIM:
I TRY TO HELP WHERE I CAN TO MAKE THIS LAND A BETTER PLACE TO RAISE OUR CHILDREN, PAY OUR TAXES AND MAKE THAT DIFFERENCE. NOW FUCK OFF, I'M BUSY.
December 13 12:09pm

I See You

2011-12-04T11:36:00.000-05:00

Me: I saw one of my former generals on the street today.

Drew: What are you talking about?

Me: From that other lifetime when I was a queen.

Drew: Really. So who was this person?

Me: Somebody's mom on the street. I didn't know her, but I recognized her. We had a moment. (Pointing two fingers to eyes and back out again).

Drew: Really?

Me: Yes. It was nice to see her again.

Drew: You do realize that you are 100% batshit crazy, right?

Me: I don't know what you're talking about, Andrew.

Drew: It's terrifying. Your lips move and I feel actual fear. (waves hands in the air) Gaaahhh!

Me n' Popeye on the Bowery

2011-11-21T13:47:00.001-05:00

I had one of those New York moments this morning that could be construed as depressing or funny, depending on where one's head is at, I suppose. It sort of warmed my heart a bit to the city that sometimes seems like a shell of its former glory to me.

On Saturday night I had to explain to yet another overprivileged trio of children fresh out of Westchester that in public areas in the city, space is tight, so slamming into the person sitting next to you at the bar (me) repeatedly is unwanted, and in some circles, considered a bit rude.

I asked the girl doing the slamming to stop (nicely) and of course she continued. Because they always continue. I'm guessing in this case it's probably because she's a spoiled asshole whose parents have been telling her she's awesome and everything she does or thinks or says is awesome and she's never been told no throughout the length of her pointless, useless existence. But again, I'm guessing.

Anyhoo, this is the new me in which there is a concerted effort to resolve issues peacefully, so I sat through about ten more minutes of the irritation as patiently as I could, then turned and attempted to explain it all to her again, in a calm voice with a smile on my face.

The boyfriend cut me off with my least favorite one word sentence on the planet: "Relax!" The sidekick said, in the most resentful and petulant tone imaginable, "It was an accident!" And the culprit in question merely pressed her face into the boyfriend's chest to signify, "I honestly believe that I am too cute to deal with the problems I have created around me so I'm just going to behave like a five year old until the moment passes." New York, New York on a Saturday night.

I will always look back somewhat wistfully upon the days when the occasional bar brawl was par for the course and not a big enough reason to call the police. A trio like this would have lasted five minutes in our old world, and that's maybe how some people have to learn how to behave. And I am somewhat sad, and occasionally resentful and petulant myself about the evil population tide that has washed over the bars and clubs of my neighborhood. So I welcome any encounter that resembles the East Village of my past, no matter what form it takes.

I walk to work every day and as I was nearing Bowery (the street on which I work) I saw a man ahead of me slumped over in a wheelchair. As I got closer I could see he was missing half a leg, and he was so far over that his hands were touching the sidewalk. His clothes looked clean. He didn't appear to be breathing.

Numerous people passed and I was a little shocked that no one even looked at him. There was a moving truck parked in front of where he sat and the guys doing the moving (giant flat screens into overpriced new condos, she says in a bitter tone) merely walked around him and into the building, without pause.

Now, it's Bowery, which features a very expensive new hotel, the afore-mentioned overpriced bullshit condos, a homeless shelter and the White Hotel, which is the last oldschool flophouse left in that area. So anything is possible. It's a melange, if you will, of the high and the low, the tourist and the bum, which can be very entertaining if you're in the right mood.

I passed the man, thinking, agh, he's just in the middle of a goodly sized dope moment. But I wavered and thought, what if he's not? It would be so typical of the new regime in this city to let a man die on the street without notice. He wasn't moving after all, so things were questionable. Usually with heroin, or whatever opiates people can get their hands on now, you'll get a little amount of snapping to and then going back down again. What if he overdosed? Or what if it's a heart attack and everyone is assuming he's fucked up?

I turned around and went back. I put my hand on his shoulder and asked, "Sir? Are you okay?"

He sat up slowly and blinked. He looked like Popeye, which immediately endeared him to me.

He said, "Oh, yeah. I'm just very sleepy. Very sleepy."

I said, "So you're just high, right? You don't need any help?"

He said, "I took a couple of aspirin, but I'm fine. I'm so tired. Thank you, sweetheart. Do you know what time it is?"

I said, "10: 58."

He replied, "Oh thank you dear! I'm late!" And he started up the wheels of his chair like there was going to be some hustling.

I turned, took a few steps to the corner and looked over my shoulder to wave back at him. He was already in full frontal slump, face between his knees (or one knee and stump) fingers on the ground. He'd probably moved three feet from the original resting spot.

I wanted to run back and give him a quick hug, but I didn't want to ruin the nod.

Rebirthing for Nerds

2011-11-12T11:23:00.001-05:00

I have a boss (not Pat) who is completely psychotic, but to his credit is always working to get less so through spiritual practice. He has tried a few different methodologies and found he really likes rebirthing. He feels that it helps to clear the substantial amount of rage and pain he carries with him, and over the summer he was so convinced of rebirthing's value that he handed me an envelope with a rebirther's number and the price of a session.

I would have preferred to keep the cash and put it towards something like botox or hair extensions, but I dutifully called the man and set up an appointment. My boss warned me that the guy was a bit of an oddball, and to roll with it. I took a train uptown and from my experience of the neighborhood and the mission at hand, anticipated a clean, new agey white apartment with plants and a massage table in the middle. There's almost always a massage table involved with this sort of activity.

I was greeted by a bearded man of small build wearing jeans and a t-shirt. He was probably a couple of years younger than me, and he welcomed me into a one room hippie pad, which could only be described as grubby and clearly the home of a bachelor. It did have plants, but messy plants. It had that kind of organization of a man who doesn't know fully how to clean properly but knows that he must make things presentable.

I recognized the signs immediately: The bed was made. There was a pile of quilts on the floor which were folded neatly into a sort of pallet, which I assumed that I would be laying on. They looked washed and I was grateful for that. The floor was clean-ish. But the kitchen looked dubious from a distance, and the bathroom, which I used upon entering, was pretty crusty. I am a fussy girl when it comes to the settings of my new age brain clearing activities, so I immediately felt edgy and judgy. What is it with some guys that they can't scrub out a tub? What germ life is my bare ass touching right now on this toilet?

But, in for a penny, in for a pound. I squared my shoulders, re-entered the room, sat down on the pallet in a protected yoga crossleg and listened to what he had to say. And he had to say A LOT. I think my tattooed appearance and guarded demeanor made him feel the need to explain that he too was hip and knew the streets of New York, and he outlined every detail about his former life as a drug addict and how he had come to the process of rebirthing and how much happier he is as a result.

He leaned back on pillows in comfortable hippie bachelor dude mode, while I sat stiffly, semi-smile pasted on my face. I felt deeply uncomfortable, which in fairness is more a statement about my mental state than his own. It was like one of those times where you find yourself waiting for a friend at a bar and end up sitting next to a too-interested guy who really wants to get to know you while you continue to glance at the door hopefully for your rescue. I am uncomfortable meeting new people in an ideal setting so this was nowhere near a relaxed zone for me.

Rebirthing, according to what information I ingested and retained, has to do with breathing. The theory is that the birth process is one in which we are thrust upon the world in a manner that is traumatizing. Breathing is painful in those first minutes and so we learn to never breathe fully and properly, and we hold energy from traumas throughout our birth and life in our muscles and body. Rebirthing is the act of breathing deeply and quickly, which causes a buildup of oxygen in the blood and helps to cleanse the suppressed emotions we are holding down by a lifetime of holding our breath. Here's the wikipedia page: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rebirthing-breathwork

I grasped that I would soon be laying on the floor and panting heavily while this strange man stared down at me. Fabulous. I am not thrilled, and not convinced, and grateful that I wore a big t-shirt rather than something breast-ey and low cut. But he seems harmless enough and very confident that this will be a life-altering experience, so I get on with it, thinking the faster we get it going, the faster I'm out of there.

I start panting, and within seconds it's excruciating. I want to be anywhere else in the world except laying there huffing. It's too much work. I don't feel good. I question the cleanliness of the blankets underneath me. Thoughts are racing through my head and I want to run. I'm unhappy physically and mentally. He tells me this resistance is normal and you have to ride it out until you come out the other end, which, God-willing, is the clearing side. I curse my boss. Isn't it enough that he tortures me at work? Why am I here?

But after what seemed like an hour of agony something did happen, and it's interesting enough that I put it in a corner of my brain to blog about at a later date, in case the information is of any use to anyone else:

I do a thing with my hand when I get defensive or angry, which is sort of cock it up in a "halt" position. A friend noticed it years ago when I was an angrier person than now, and she would shout, "The hand! The hand!" when she thought we were nearing a danger zone. My dog, who was viciously abused in his early years, does a unique thing with his paws whenever he's afraid, which is to tense them up and cross them over each other very tightly, almost as if he's wringing them. It's the saddest, most pathetic thing you've ever seen: as you dip him into a bath he just gives up and rolls in like a furry pill bug.

So I'm laying there panting like an idiot and my hand goes up, my feet tighten, bend, and cross just like my dog's, and memories of a night that I was molested as a very young child flood my brain. And I start crying. It was instantaneous and very emotional, and at the same time there is another part of me thinking, great, this is absolutely mortifying and the last thing I wanted to do was give this guy the satisfaction of weeping five minutes into this crap while he is probably looking at my boobs or wondering what he's going to have for lunch. But he's still talking and telling me to go with it, and it was either go on or make a scene and drag it out even longer.

The next thing that rolled into my head almost as instantaneously was a cinematic action version of this, which is an image from a video game called Bioshock II:

Last year I got completely obsessed with playing Bioshock and Bioshock II. It's a great game, visually it is right up my alley with beautifully detailed art deco settings, music from the 30's, interesting opponents and a very creative and fun weaponry system. Dork, dork, dork. Your character is a man in a nearly invincible suit of armor which looks like an old-fashioned diving suit, and the game offers you a choice to be either a protector/rescuer or a harvester of of these little girls who have been turned into sort of energy collecting zombies. It's all very complicated and awesome and creepy, and I spent months and months stomping around as one of these big daddies, protecting and restoring little girls. I just could not get enough, I would finish and start right over again, until I reluctantly loaned the games to my brother to get them out of the house for a little while.

So I'm laying there sniffling and I think, this is weird, how did Big Daddy get in here? So random...And then OOOOHHHHHH. What we ladies like to call an Oprah "aha!" moment. Of course he's here while I'm crunching up physically over something that happened to me when I was 8. And THAT'S why this game crawled so deeply into my psyche. I get to be a giant, armored monster who protects the little girl.

Well duh.

So without getting all sappy and drawing this out, I do feel that I cleared some of that particular energy out and got a better understanding of how much that incident hurt me. I have always felt that it was a minor infraction in my life compared to the pain that other people have suffered at the hands of abusers. It probably lasted 15 minutes, after a couple of days of painfully uncomfortable interaction in which I sensed it was coming, and then I never saw the person again. But clearly, if this is what came up, it was still sitting in there, and is maybe emblematic for other hurts that were too easily dismissed without the proper respect.

Sometimes it's hard to know what to pay attention to, and what to let go. I am very cautious about fetishizing pain, and have a hard time with people who can't move forward in their lives. But at the same time, you have to deal with your crap.

If I look at my life from the outside, objectively, the Big Daddy/Little Sister relationship has been a primary theme throughout. Protecting the inner, easily wounded part with armor and ferocity. I am attracted to people who behave similarly and love breaking down the scariest person in the room. But then, isn't this how most of us protect ourselves anyway? It manifests outwardly with different armors, but the essence is there. Some people use anger, some addiction, some people-pleasing, some sex, some plain old asshole-ism. Peeling off those layers is, in my mind, the whole point of being here.

As far as rebirthing goes, I was told that it is recommended that people go for numerous sessions, as different things come up to clear every time. I am sure that's true. He pushed me to make another appointment and I declined, stating that I would at a later time, but knowing that I wouldn't be back. I gleaned some information out of the experience that was valuable to me, but I don't feel a burning desire to go back. I I just want to lay the experience out here for those of you who are curious about the process or seeking new methods of healing.

And happily, Skyrim was released this week, can't wait to see what the dragons have to teach me about my deep inner life. This is the excuse that will now be used for the hours spent nerdgaming. Oh happy day!

Birthday Poem Part 1

2011-11-07T21:16:00.000-05:00

This is total ego-braying now, but my lovely friend Chloe Valentine posted this on my Facebook wall today, and I feel the need to share...

With no further delay, I present your birthday poem Part 1
Homage to Mary Raffaele

Ivory skin, silky so fine
An infectious smile
She is divine

A Scorpio Birthday
A delightful lass

Cats, high heels, pasta, glamorous dresses
Patron, jewels, and Lemmy...

Authenticity

2011-10-17T13:35:00.000-04:00

ME: I hate the way the bottom half of my face is looking in photos lately. It looks old. I need a facelift.

DREW: Why don't you do face yoga? (Pulls his chin out and up) There are exercises.

ME: That's a good idea. I'll research it online.

DREW: Or maybe just shut up. You're probably loosening the skin by flapping your jaw so much.

ME: I am living my authentic self, like Oprah says I should. I am speaking my truth.

DREW: Well, your truth is very noisy. It's a noisome truth.

ME: Well, my truth for today is that you are an asshole.

DREW: I don't think making that face is good for your skin either.

Bebe Buell, Babes, and Bathroom Brawls

2011-10-13T08:38:00.000-04:00

So, my longtime and dear friend Bebe Buell asked me to do a spoken word opener for her record release party last night. She said, "You're so funny, Raffer. I am envisioning you with a new spoken word career!" Which is very kind, and I gladly accepted and wrote something specially for her night.

My mom is in town for a visit, and staying with me, so I've been on the go nonstop all week, and I worked all day. I ran home, curled my hair, threw some eyelashes on, printed the piece out quickly, then ran to the venue without checking. the pages.

True to Raff minor chaos form, I got onstage, read the first three pages happily, and then realized as I stood in a spotlight, with 350 people listening, that I had left the last page at home. Le sigh. Le panic. Le FREAKOUT. I had to wing it. I am SO not into winging it. But I had a great time, and I think the crowd did too, and I'm so grateful to Bebe for her incredibly generous spirit and her awesome audience. Please pick up her new album "Hard Love". You won't be disappointed, I think it might be her best yet.

All my best girls showed up for support, and in another typical Raff situation, two of them almost got in a major brawl in the ladies room when a zaftig goth girl complained loudly to the bathroom attendant that I had stolen her material. I have killer friends, and I do mean killer in both senses of the word. They do me proud.

And happily, more than a couple of people I met asked if they could find the piece online, so I am posting it here. And then I'm going back to bed, because my vodka-soaked head is killing me.

As per usual, namaste, my bitches.

BEEB

When Bebe asked me to get up here and say something, I thought about a number of stories that I’ve written, but decided that since it’s her record release, it makes sense to begin by speaking about Bebe, and how we met.

When I was a teenager I was a nerd. I wore thick glasses and lived in a small town in Michigan. And I was insane about Todd Rundgren. Like devoted, rabid fan. His nerdiness spoke to my nerdiness in a way that I felt no one else could understand. I knew we were meant to be together. One day we would be madly in love. I would stand at his side wearing the coolest clothes and we would use big words like “onomatopoeia” and “ubiquitous” in our everyday conversation.

Because it was the 70’s I had pictures of him up in my locker at school, cut out from Creem and Rolling Stone Magazines, where I got all of my most important news. There was no internet. You couldn’t google your idols, you just had to wait for these magazines to come out each month, and listen to flat, vinyl records over and over again while you looked at the jacket cover and fantasized about another life. A life that involved fitting in and rock stars and skyscrapers and fancy backstage parties. A life that did not include shoveling snow in moon boots and waiting for your birthday so you could get contact lens and stop being abused for being a four-eyed nerd at your Todd-festooned locker.

One day I opened a magazine, most likely the aforementioned Creem, and there was that famous photo of Todd and Bebe sitting at a small table looking up at the camera. I stopped breathing for a minute. Bebe looked so beautiful, and not much older than me. Her big blue eyes were wide and sweet, she wore a flower in her long, light, full hair and her mouth was parted slightly open, as if she were waiting to be kissed. She was so beautiful.

I thought to myself...“That fucking bitch.”

I was pissed. My hair never looked like that! I had assumed, wrongfully I could see now, that Todd was waiting patiently for me to pull myself together and move to New York so we could start our life together. Bebe was an interloper. She had stolen my man, my future life! I began listening for signs of her in his songs. I practically had a meltdown when she put out a record of her own. That was really taking it too far. I was gonna beat her up one day. As soon as I got the hell out of Dodge and into New York City, she was gonna get it.

Well...I did get the hell out of Dodge, and I stopped wearing glasses and started my own band. Screw you, Todd. I don’t wanna be your goddamn girlfriend anymore. I’m going to get famous and then you and all the hometown haters will be sorry that you didn’t appreciate me when you had a chance! I was officially a Cycle Slut from Hell with an attitude to match the name.

Sometime in the late 80’s Dee Dee Ramone hosted a show that featured a number of bands, including my band, the Cycle Sluts, and Bebe was scheduled to play. I was finally going to get to see my teenage nemesis in person and I was very curious. I assumed that I would hate her. She was blonde, after all. Surely just a spoiled model with nothing to say.

I dressed in my heavy metal gear for sound check and put my guard up. Too cool for school, just hanging here near the stage, smoking a cigarette in my thigh high boots. You know how it is.

Bebe spotted me immediately and got up from her seat and marched directly over to me and introduced herself with a big smile. Liv, who was just a little girl then, smiled and waved from her seat. Bebe’s blue eyes were even more clear in real life. Her hair looked great (of course). She was so friendly and natural. They both shone like the sun and their presence was so warm and friendly that I couldn’t help but warm up a little bit in the light.

I thought...“That fucking bitch.” Now I had to be nice. This did not fit into my master plan.

My brain sort of exploded. And my brain has been exploding ever since. Bebe has taken me to Todd’s house for the weekend, we took a road trip to Wisconsin with Skid Row and Guns and Roses, and another time we went to a strip bar with Gene Simmons, with whom, by the way, I had a very deep and thoughtful conversation about silicone breasts. My teenage nemesis helped make some amazing rock and roll moments possible for me. This is all the proof I need that life is magic.

So today I thought I would hail all the women who have entered my life much as Bebe has: as someone to eye with suspicion as we are raised to do. Who are you? What do you have that people will love you for more than they love me? Are you prettier than me? Skinnier than me? What are you going to take from me?

If you can get past the the butt-sniffing phase, you can occasionally find someone to call sister. Sometimes you gain an archenemy instead. But this can be fun as well, full of catty conversations with friends, dirty looks across the room, and the occasional bar brawl that leads you to review your current life choices. Or maybe that’s just me? Regardless, I get a little smarter with every connection.

So here’s to you, my girls. You bitches, you gossipers, you haters, you nurturers, you lovers. I am so grateful, more grateful than words can say, for the tender hand you extend when I fall. I forgive you for sometimes pushing me off the cliff in the first place.

Here’s to you, girls who weren’t born pretty and made themselves so. I salute you for the effort. You look fabulous. Here’s to the girls who put themselves through college. The ones who get the job done. The ones who can carry half their weight, the ones who can stitch a wound. The ladies who know what it’s like to lug their own suitcase up six flights of tenement stairs. The women who will stop their car on the highway to rescue a stray dog. The ladies of pro-wrestling. You’ve all got great asses.

Here’s to anyone who’s ever sent a cringe-worthy drunk email or left a wasted late night message on the phone. Here’s to the cheaters who just couldn’t help themselves. Here’s to the girls who have figured out all his passwords. You know you’re crazy, but you’re fucking smart. Here’s to anyone who’s ever made an ass out of themselves over love. Here’s to you, who loved so much the bones of your heart had no choice but to crack in a million pieces under the weight. They fused back in new patterns and you were never the same. Harder perhaps, but less of a sap and more compassionate where it counts. You chose the pain; now you don’t need to choose it again.

So here’s to damaged goods. You couldn’t stay away from that bad boy, and now you’re flawed with the occasional std and the constant bad attitude. Here’s to your junkie past that scarred your skin and burned your brain. Who gives a shit. That was yesterday, this is today. Don’t do it again and you’ll be fine. You are fine. You are a stone cold fox.

I laud you, single mothers. I don’t know how you do it, it looks like the hardest job in the world, and I’ve worked some shit jobs in my day. I have a friend who lost her four year old to cancer. She told me some days it was all she could do not to go to the cemetery and dig that baby up just to hold her one more time. Imagine the courage it takes to get through just one of those days. The good mother is superhuman. What it does to your boobs is criminal and it is my God-given right to glare at your stroller that blocks my entrance into the liquor store, but I hail the you just the same.

And I bow to you, wives who make their marriages work, and wives who could not. Either way you are golden and grand and you have done the best you could with what you know. Give yourselves a gold star, a pat on the back, a big glass of wine in a fancy goblet, unless you’re one of my girls in recovery. In that case you can have an ice tea with no sugar. I want you healthy and happy because there’s a lot of work to do out there.

I have so much love for you, you’ve carried me through the best and the worst of times, which are sometimes interchangeable. You loaned me clothes, bought me lunch, called to gently break the news about my cheating man, did coke with me until the sun came up and then called the next day to tell me we had to stop. You shouted and clapped at every show I performed, no matter how off-key it sounded. You forgave me. I’m so grateful that you forgave me.

Here’s to the witches, psychos, crazy bitches, shrews, harpies, cunts, fishwives, hellcats, she-devils, whores, harridans, skanks, nymphos, prudes, dogs. The festerers, the obsessives, the maniacs, the freaks, the drunk dialers, the wallflowers, the fatties. The ones wearing too much makeup. Too thick, too skinny, not pretty enough, too pretty, not the right one. The rock and roll bitches, because you are my favorite bitches of all. You are perfect, my dear. Stop shouting into the wind and and do your best to learn to sit peacefully in your imperfection. It will get better, I promise.

I raise a toast to my girls: Take a look at yourself next time you’re in front of a mirror. This might be the most beautiful you’ll ever be in your life, so enjoy it while you can. Maybe not. Fuck it. Fuck it. You are a champion, you are more lovable than you think you are, you are a muse, you deserve to have songs written about you. You are holy, you are whole. You just have to shut the fuck up and step out of your own way.

So here’s a salute to you my sisters. I hail you my frenemies. I thank you my enemies. Without you, I am nothing.

Now let’s get on with this show because time is ticking and Bebe and I aren’t getting any younger.

Did I...Did We...?

2011-09-16T13:31:00.000-04:00

Whew! What a couple of weeks. As much as I like a good party, it's been much. Ordinarily I can handle one event a week, maximum. Last week we had a simultaneous Patricia Field party at the store and the new Veselka for Fashion's Night Out: There are some good photos here:
NY METROMIX.

Paulina, me, and Luke Vahle in our FNO party gear:

Two days later Patricia, who is working with Maybelline, had a private party in her home for the Maybelline delegates from China. They were absolutely lovely people and included a celebrity from Shanghai, who one of the girls told me is a huge star on television over there, with a plethora of female fans. He was a super cute little guy in hip gear and porkpie hat, trailed by a 6' tall, incredibly gorgeous asian model. He seemed accustomed to being a big deal, but was very friendly. I thought how funny it is that everything is relative; here none of us have a clue and in another setting some Chinese girl would lose her mind being in such close proximity. Celebrity is so arbitrary.

Cut to this week, my girl Zoe's husband Handsome Dick Manitoba was scheduled to sing two songs at a Road to Recovery event honoring Slash. I was beyond excited to be Zoe's date for the evening, as I love me some Slash and Duff McKagan. I spent a decent amount of time around them back in the day. was backstage at most of their shows in NY, they hung out often in the scene at the Scrap Bar, and one time Bebe Buell and I were flown to Wisconsin by CSFH's lawyer for an action-packed Skid Row/GnR show weekend. We hung out with Skid Row mostly, and it was obvious that Axl was starting to drive his bandmates insane by then. Stephanie Seymour was there and it took hours before Axl would get onstage. I had one glimpse of Slash that night looking very tense outside their dressing room door, and we didn't venture into their realm that night.

And then lastly, in my GnR hang out chronicles, Duff once picked me up at Scrap Bar and took me in his limo to a party in their hotel room. All strictly platonic, he's a very gracious person who would do things like that. We had a great time in the ride, he had a friend with him and they poured me a drink and we watched the city roll by out the limousine window. It was a classic New York rock and roll night and I haven't been up close to him in person since then, so I was very much looking forward to having the opportunity to say hello some 20 years later.

Zoe and I are overgrown teenagers, so she said, "You know, this event is dry. Should we bring a flask?" I didn't have one and neither did she, so she offered to buy a couple of small bottles to hide on our personage (i.e. panties). Keepin' it classy. Of course I said yes, a little airplane bottle would be just right. If we are rocking out and want a little swig, it'll be there. Cue to the cab, Zoe opens her bag and pulls out two giant fifths of the ever-elegant Smirnoff:

I should do commercials for them, right? I laughed and said, "Girl, first of all, there is no way we're fitting these in our pants, and second, if we did drink all this we would end up in the hospital!" Zoe agreed and said she got carried away by the flatness of the bottle, thinking it would be easy enough to hide. We decide that the prudent thing to do is take a few swigs in the cab and leave the bottles outside the venue for some happy bum to find. Which we do. And although we probably could have snuck them in in our bags, something tells me that we were better off leaving this much alcohol behind prior to entering a benefit for substance abuse.

The show was great. Richard (Handsome Dick) killed it with a cover of Kick Out the Jams, and we were able to watch from backstage at the side of the stage. Seeing Slash and Duff perform in such close proximity flashed me back to a time when I was dating Slam Thunderhide of Zodiac Mindwarp and the Love Reaction and they opened for GnR. I stood in a similar spot, side of stage, watching some of the same people. I felt a bit wistful for a moment. It seemed only a minute ago that we were in the thick of it: young and beautiful, vying for and garnering rock star attention. The world was a different place and possibilities were infinite. Now I am just another middle aged woman with a backstage pass. But it was fun while it lasted and I am grateful that I can still wrangle that pass once in a while.

Prior to the show I pounced on Duff in the dressing room, and said, "Hi Duff, it's Raff, from the Cycle Sluts. Do you remember me?" He was very friendly but he paused and cocked his head in confusion. After the show, back in the same room I said, "I'm a little sad that you don't remember me." He replied, "No, I do. It's just that much of my past is a blur. I had to go through my mental rolodex. Did we...did I...?"

I laughed and said, "NO! Not at all, nothing untoward. All friendly and good." We talked a little bit about writing; he has a book coming out and writes a column for the Seattle Weekly, and I felt happy to have made the connection.

Slash seemed uninterested when I introduced myself, but as he was leaving he sort of leaped in and gave me a hug and said, "It's so good to see you! I never see anyone from back then anymore." I was very touched by that and it occurred that he is either somewhat shy or perhaps made the connection after my hello. Either way it made me happy and I remarked that if they gave me a guest list next time I could provide him with an entire busload of New York old timers.

Cut to two days later. Drew comes home at 4 am, wrecked from one of those horrible fashion week rich kid and model parties that his crew likes to attend. He woke me up and asked, "Did you send a threatening letter to Miss X? She says you did." Miss X is a socialite who tends to photograph her own legs quite a bit and orbits around his band on occasion.

I went through my mental rolodex..."Did I...did we...?"

I mean, I never really threaten, per se. There was that pathetic Swedish chick a million years ago that got a little out of hand. I did send her a message through myspace to let her know that I was aware of what she was trying to accomplish...And then there was the hardcore chick who was calling him a little too often, but she and I are friendly and that was an old school communication and we're tighter for it...And then okay, I have to admit that there was that completely uncalled for and bitchy late night missive that I sent to that spoiled moron who fancies herself the new Anita Pallenberg. I am willing to state that this was a little juvenile on my part and I, on occasion, will make an ass of myself. But, ah...no, I can definitely say that I have never emailed this particular female and can think of no reason that it would be necessary?

Drew eyed me like Larry David. You have to feel for the guy sometimes.

The next day I wondered, feeling disconcerted and a little icky. Did this girl confuse an email from someone else? Is she simply crazy? Did I do something characteristically dumb and completely blank it out? Or is someone out there pretending to be me? That would be creepy. But then I thought, hmm...maybe it's sort of exciting that someone would find me interesting enough to impersonate? I'll never know for sure. One thing I do know for sure, life is never dull.

So that is my life as a cover girl. Fashion's Night Out, Chinese celebrities, some of my favorite rock stars, and past psychotic behavior coming to bite me in the ass. Up next, tomorrow is a D Generation reunion at Irving Plaza, which will be like a class reunion and will undoubtedly provide more blog fodder. In the meantime, here are some photos from Road to Recovery. I stupidly took everyone else's and forgot to take any of my own:

Richard and Slash:

Zoe and Slash:

Zoe and Richard:

Richard's photo from soundcheck. Duff, Slash, and Wayne Kramer. I think it's a cool shot.

And lastly, me and Zoe. The outfit I'm wearing looked way better in person, I'm so upset that it makes me look dumpy here and the bra is showing through, but it's the only snap of the two of us from the night.

Namaste, bitches!

No Capes!

2011-09-02T12:01:00.000-04:00

Whew! Hurricane Irene! Most of my cynical New York friends complained that they were duped when we didn't get destroyed. But parts of the city went without power, a friend in New Jersey had a brand new car submerged in water, another friend in Brooklyn had to pull up his basement carpet because of flooding. I wasn't affected much, my Direct tv dish on the roof didn't even flicker. Finally, crappy walk-up tenement living works in a person's favor, too high up for flooding, windows don't face anything pretty that can break off and fly in.

What was more interesting to me was the shopping frenzy the two days before. Drew and I were not immune to the mob panic, we assembled a packed fridge, a pile of new flashlight batteries, candles and a few jugs of water. Plus ice cream, boxes of pasta, tuna fish, peanut butter, bread, fruit, salad stuff, fake meat patties, hot sauce, more bread, veggies, extra bottles of wine, cans of cat food, etc. etc. Classic Raff panic over the wine. I bought everything on Friday and then freaked out on Saturday morning. We're gonna need booze if we're sitting in the house for days! Luckily many people think the way I do, and the liquor store was open on Saturday afternoon and doing a brisk business. You'd think vodka was a staple the way people were snatching it off the shelves. I bought 2 reds and a white and called it a day. And then we ate to bursting with a nice cabernet while the rain came down.

On to another subject that I've been thinking about...I caught part of the movie "Superheroes" on cable last week. I haven't seen the entire film, it's on my dvr list and I'll probably watch it tonight. But the parts I did catch were very interesting.

The movie is a documentary about people across the U.S. who are creating new superhero characters for themselves by dressing up and going out into the streets to fight crime. Clearly, to the rational mind, there are all kinds of things that can go wrong with this scenario. First, none of them have actual superpowers and can easily get shot or damaged. This is the primary issue that I take with the idea. Second, things like masks and capes can really slow a person down if they do get into a battle with the criminal element. In real life, capes don't blow back out of the way when you're doing physical work. They fall in your face and get caught on table corners and door knobs, which is undignified at best. And a mask is going to be a hindrance if you're, say, trying to keep your eye out for gang guys who are going to cap your ass for getting up in their business with your costumed bad self. These outfits just don't seem practical. How are you going to chase or run away in all that plastic?

The man in the green, Mr. Xtreme, is a slightly pudgy guy who appeared to be consistently losing the wrestling matches he was fighting in the gym. His parents, Asian immigrants to the U.S., had more traditional aspirations for their son and seem genuinely confused by his lifestyle choice. But they also seem very sweet and are trying very hard to find acceptance. His father worries that he'll get hurt roaming the streets at night, a legitimate concern. They're probably praying it's a phase.

But in fairness, he is out there trying to make a difference in the world, and that's kind of lovely. And there were some in very good shape and well equipped, both physically and mentally, to do damage to criminals they might find in their travels:

I find the phenomenon fascinating. At first it seems merely laughable, especially when the more ridiculous of the people were on screen. It's not the most reasonable or lucrative of career paths. But I do get the desire to be larger than life, to be special, to make a difference in the world, to be magical. These are not bad things to aspire toward.

I said to Drew, "I always wanted to be a superhero too, I just didn't know it was an option." And he responded, "You already are. Take a look at the shit you wore in the Cycle Sluts. And you scare the crap out of everyone." Jerk. But he's right. It's obvious when looking at old photos that my lifelong catwoman adoration has guided many choices in my own life.

Favorite outfit ever, but I could only wear it for photos because it was made out of sweat-inducing pvc and the whole thing rode up my ass if I so much as took a step:

PS. Check out Gini's awesome studded viking codpiece. Great minds think superhero alike.

I happened to get lucky and was able to create a larger than life character for myself. It has sustained and educated me over the years as I strive to understand and heal the quiet and wounded person underneath that original desire to expand into something more powerful and better defended. And I have a great life: I live in New York, I get attention and singled out, I have excitement and love and cool friends and backstage passes. I never take any of that for granted because I wasn't born into it.

So who am I to judge a pudgy Asian dude who wants to be something other than an ordinary working stiff? We ALL want to be more than an ordinary working stiff, and we all are, in reality. Even people with the most outwardly boring of lives have an inner world that could be fascinating if it were expressed properly. We are all children of the same Universe with hearts and minds and desires.

Some of us get an easier run towards the prizes, some of us don't. One of the people filmed is an obvious alcoholic. He was raised by a father who put him in a ring on the weekends to fight other kids, often his friends, and if he lost would get beaten and sent to his room with no food or medical treatment. Can you imagine? The man is ridiculous in his silver suit, moving from bar to bar. But isn't it so much more wonderful to at least aspire to be something magical than to lay down and die or continue to perpetuate the damage by fighting dogs or something equally abusive and hereditary? I love the spirit of the act, even if the act itself isn't as effective as it reads in comic books.

So that's my thought for today. Let's all be superheroes. Let's allow ourselves to be grander and a little more crazy than what is considered normal.

Just don't wear a cape.

Soundcheck Magazine Interview

2011-08-26T12:33:00.000-04:00

Hey all! I know a decent blog is overdue, I will get on it this weekend while Hurricane Irene rages.

In the meantime, the always awesome Chris Rockson interviewed me for Soundcheck Magazine: CHECK IT OUT HERE!

On The Plane

2011-08-01T08:10:00.000-04:00

ME: Holy crap, who is yelling into their cellphone back there?

DREW: It's that woman with the giant head.

ME: I think her head is normal, she just has really big hair.

DREW: TALK LOUDER! I CAN'T HEAR YOU THROUGH MY WIG!

ME: You do realize people can hear what you say, right?

DREW: Oh, did I say that out loud?

ME: You're still drunk from last night, aren't you?

DREW: I CAN'T HEAR YOU THROUGH MY WIG!

ME: And you smell delightful. It's like traveling with Bukowski.

DREW (Mickey Rourke voice): I'M LEON SPINKS!

The Old Gray Mare

2011-07-27T08:12:00.000-04:00

My lovely friend Gina Vetro, actress, comedian, pianist, genius, who I lived with on St. Mark's place "back in the day", sent me this paragraph on the state of NYC this morning.
Last night i walked the westside highway w/ Billy (erb), aka Billy Beyond aka Bilbo Baggins...the rain was pouring down, it was fun, almost decadent. Remember NYC used to be fun? Then we saw a police van w/ about 4 cops & they stopped this 1 very polite young black girl w/ about 8 of her friends, she was the only one drinkin a bud outta paper bag.

when she politely answered them the cop said, "I can give u another ticket for insubordination, where's your ID"...WHO THE HELL EVER CARRIED ID IN THE SUMMER IN NYC!" These are the same piers that you did blow on, smoked a joint, got fist-fucked up the ass, took a hit a poppers, stabbed someone or got stabbed & MAYBE (if you were lucky) saw a body floating in the Hudson River!!! An OPENED BUD IN A PLAIN BROWN PAPER BAG???!!!! REALLY!!!!????

As Frodo & Bilbo continued their walk squeezing past the packs & herds of higher income white people (or higher income moms & dads paying for their higher income housing) who used to be to afraid to come into the West Village /Meat Packing after dark (pre-carrie-bradshaw days) Bilbo looked @ me and said, ''The west village used to be so awful & dangerous, now look at it, it's just awful............"

Even my sister (whom i equate to Mary Tyler Moore) says 'everything you can get in NY, you can get in Wayne, PA...so what's the diff???'

I told her that her sister is right, and Drew and I are seriously considering retiring to my childhood home on Lake Michigan in ten years, which is something I never thought I would do in a million years.

But so this isn't a completely depressing post, I've left you with a couple videos of Gina, the first, she is clucking like a chicken for Calvin Klein, the second, she's just taking care of her man's car like a good wife.

Unicorns & Rainbows

2011-07-22T17:19:00.000-04:00

From: M. Raffaele
Subject: Photos!
To: Uncle Cranky
Date: Tuesday, July 19, 2011, 7:08 PM

PHOTOS!

From: Uncle Cranky
Subject: Photos!
To: M. Raffaele <darklady1@gmail.com>
Date: Tuesday, Jul 19, 2011 at 8:31 PM

On Tue, Jul 19, 2011 at 8:31 PM, Uncle Cranky wrote:

BOY, DO I LOOK LIKE A GROUCH ! ! WHAT THE FUCK, DID YOU DO, PHOTO SHOP PHOTO # 4 ? I LOOK LIKE I GOT ONE TOOTH IN ME MOUTH ! ! I ESPECIALLY LIKE THE WAY YOU TWO TWATS ABANDON ME HALF WAY THROUGH THE NIGHT, GO UPSTAIRS, BOOZE IT UP THERE FOR ''HOURS'', THEN BLAME ME FOR GETTING YOU DRUNK,...NICE,...NICE
YOU PAL, UNCLE CRANKY, ''THE ALCOHOL SCAPEGOAT''

From: M. Raffaele
Subject: Photos
To: Uncle Cranky
Date: Wednesday, July 20, 2011, 8:17 AM

Haha! What do you mean, you "LOOK" like a grouch?? Is this news to you?

Did we really abandon you halfway through the night? I didn't eat any dinner before going out and I got so blotto my boyfriend had to come and get me. Then I slipped off my shoe in the hallway of my building and sprained my ankle. Veeerrrrrry classy indeed. And yes, I totally pinned it on your strong drinks. What can I say, I'm a horrible person. It's why we're friends.

Text me or Zoe when you get back into town from riding burros in the mountains of Peru or whatever it is you're doing overseas this summer.

XOXOXOXOXO

From: Uncle Cranky
Subject: HOW DARE YOU??
To: M. Raffaele
Date: Wednesday, July 20, 2011, 11:38 AM

On Wed, Jul 20, 2011 at 11:38 AM, Uncle Cranky wrote:

I AM NOT A FUCKIN GROUCH ! ! ! *!@:#!@!!@#!!*

From: M. Raffaele <darklady1@gmail.com>

Subject: Re: HOW DARE YOU ! !
To: Uncle Cranky
Date: Wednesday, July 20, 2011, 12:38 PM

You are a golden, magical unicorn in a forest of rare gems and exotic orchids.

From: Uncle Cranky
Subject: HOW DARE YOU??
To: M. Raffaele
Date: Wednesday, July 20, 2011, 5:52 PM
On Wed, Jul 20, 2011 at 5:52 PM, Uncle Cranky wrote:

ahhh, thats better,......but, ......YOU FORGOT THE FUCKIN RAINBOWS ! ! !

Pronounity

2011-07-16T11:31:00.000-04:00

We get a lot of celebrities coming into the Patricia Field store (where I work) and generally they're pretty nice. Beyonce was a sweetheart. Katie Perry is adorable. Paris Hilton is always friendly and nice. Jerry Hall was a bit of a bitch, but her kids are always great. I think she was pissed she had to spend time in a store she probably considers declasse paying for stuff her kids wanted. Or maybe she's just a bitch.

I work in the office, not on the floor, and when someone famous comes in I usually remain hidden. I have met enough celebrities in my life, and I'm not particularly interested, unless it's a rock star or someone I actually know. When Slash and his wife visited I made a point to come out and say hi and make sure they got a couple of CSFH tees. But other than him I can't remember the last time I got excited over a visit.

We also get a lot of reality shows filming in there. The store is very colorful and fun and adds instant visual excitement. I am not immune to the lure of reality tv, but I'm not interested in the "stars" for the most part, so I don't bother getting up from my desk when they come in. I did run out to see Kim Kardashian when she showed up because she's just so goddamn pretty that I wanted to see if it held up in real life. It does. She's actually more petite than you would expect and even prettier in person, if that's possible. And her mom was very nice and fun.

During that same visit Courtney' Kardashian's husband was somewhat ignorant and obnoxious about the transgender quotient in our store, but you would expect that from him. Which leads me to today's blog. You would also expect that the Real Housewives of New York would behave a little better than one of the most hated people on reality television. Alas, they did not.

First, allow me to introduce you to my friend Codie Leone. She is a transsexual woman, and has been living as a woman since this 80's. Nan Goldin took this iconic photo of her then:

This is Codie now.

The ladies of PF: Ingrid, me, Sofia, Codie:

This is an outtake of a photo shoot that Aaron Cobbett did of Codie and her biological sons, which is a tale for another day:

So now you have a mental image. Codie has been my friend for 20 years. She's hilarious, she's generous and kind, and she manages the wig department and works in the salon as a stylist. Codie was on the sales floor when the Housewives came in to tart themselves up for some bullshit party that was most likely expensive and boring. According to Codie, they seemed very nice and she was happy to help them.

She was not as happy once the show aired, because when she wasn't in earshot one of the housewives repeatedly referred to her as "that guy".

Unfortunately I can't post the video. I just spent the last hour digging around online and I am not web savvy enough to be able to bring it to you. I did find a small portion of it on this preview on Amazon, they're in the store during the last quarter of the clip: http://www.amazon.com/Burlesque-Is-More-HD/dp/B005BO4X8U.

I bit the bullet and spent Amazon's asking price of $2.99 to download the entire episode in order to see the full clip of their time in the store and be able to blog about it properly. It wasn't quite as bad as I was expecting, but it was still the kind of ignorance that you would expect from a housewife from Kentucky, not New York. Especially when this particular New York housewife has openly declared herself a gay icon: http://www.advocate.com/News/Daily_News/2011/04/15/Housewife_Declares_Herself_Gay_Icon/

It's not that complicated. It's really not. Transgender/transsexual people are people who choose to change their sex, usually because they feel that their genitals don't match their hearts and minds. To call a transgender woman "he", "him", or "that guy" is deeply insulting and in my mind, only shows your own stupidity and insecurity.

I love my transgender friends. They have the same dreams and feelings that the rest of us have and it hurts to see them take so much shit on a daily basis. They are forced to defend themselves every day of their lives in some way, and I'm fucking sick of it. It's 2011 fer Chrissake, everyone has a computer, everyone watches television. Why would anyone in their right mind choose to derogate another human being for making a change in their life that hurts no one?

And while we're on the topic, and for the record, a transvestite is (usually) a straight man who likes to put on women's clothing, sometimes for sexual purposes, sometimes just 'cause he wants to feel pretty. A drag queen is a man who performs professionally as a woman. Transsexual, transvestite, drag queen: three separate and distinct categories. The terms aren't interchangeable, unless maybe you're Pete Burns? I don't know what he considers himself at this point. Manwoman, maybe? I'm not sure, I'm just glad he's out there shaking up the status quo with his bad self.

I don't know what else to say about it. Reality television is reality television and a good part of the reason we watch is to feel batter about our own selves by laughing at others. I watch Jersey Shore and Project Runway religiously, so please don't send me personal email rants about how hideous it all is and how far above it you are. Save that for the comment section here because I already agree with you and know that most of it is horrendous.

But still, can't we at least expect a little more from women who live in New York City? Codie welcomed them because she is an open, friendly person and she trusted that they understood who she is. They repaid her warmth by squandering an opportunity to educate and belittling her on national television. This makes me heart-achey and blog-ranty.

A Cautionary Tale

2011-06-19T16:40:00.000-04:00

The internets is a wonderful thing. I can hardly remember how it was possible to function before Wikipedia and Mapquest. If I had the internet as a teenager my life would have been drastically different. I could have connected to like-minded souls and gotten information on the music I loved so much more easily. And then undoubtedly and inevitably I would have rushed headlong into one or another cyberpedo kidnapping plot that most kids could spot a mile away. So maybe things unfold the way they are meant to happen.

Anyway, it's great, except when it's not. Like, except when adults set up fake teenage myspace pages to harass a little girl until she commits suicide. Or when people create viruses to fuck up your shit just because they can, or because they want your grandmother to fall for fake virus malware and send money to an offshore account to buy "virus protection". Or when people are anonymously and unnecessarily mean. I don't read the comments on youtube anymore, because under even the cutest, sweetest, most harmless kitten video possible, there will always be at least one moron stating something vile. When I read these comments I get scared for the planet.

Another crap use of the internet: hacking into famous or known people's email and facebook accounts to steal their photos and post them on your shitty website in order to make money and a "name" for yourself.

And so our tale begins.

My friend Anki worked for MTV Norway for a few years, first producing Headbanger's Ball, then hosting it along with producing. She is pretty well known in Europe, but lives in LA now and is not so famous here in the states. Anki is very hard-working and passionate about everything she does; she knows the music she speaks of very well, and I've seen her dive in completely when she has a project, only coming up for air when it's finished. When I met her I was impressed with her intelligence and wit, and we bonded immediately over expensive shoes and strong cocktails.

Anki is also beautiful. Like, really beautiful. When I eat across the table from her I blank occasionally as I watch the planes of her face reflect light. Her skin is incredible, her features refined and symmetrical, she's never taken a bad photo in her life. I would hate her if she wasn't so cool. Here's Anki and I looking booberiffic the last time we hung out:

Despite the low cut nature of our dresses on this particular evening, Anki is generally very modest and ladylike, especially considering her love of black metal and hardcore. It was one of the things that initially attracted me to her: this girl who knows the heaviest music yet carries herself with elegance. Anki does not dive into intimacy quickly and doesn't have one night stands. During her stint with MTV she worked very hard to maintain a professional stance despite the fact that she's an attractive woman surrounded by guys in bands.

Cut to internet villains on the loose: One particular set hacked into her friend's facebook account and sent her a couple of harmless-seeming questions about her email address from that facebook account. Anki responded, thinking she was having a conversation with a friend, and through that conversation enough information was gleaned to hack into her email account.

You can guess where I'm headed. In 2009 Anki was navigating a long distance relationship, and had sent her boyfriend at the time some hot photos. Nothing too crazy, but topless and obviously intended for someone she is comfortable with seeing her naked. She had the presence of mind to delete everything after sending, and the photos were not in her thoughts in 2011. But she forgot some of the autosaves in the drafts folder. These photos were then stolen by strangers and posted on the world wide web on a site that specializes in amateur sex photos, primarily stolen from hacked facebook accounts.

And thus a nice girl gets exposed in a way she finds most embarrassing. There for the world to see: first, her name in bold type, her occupation, some photos stolen from facebook, one of her smiling, one with her dog (for the love of God, not the dog, not the dog!!). Then the jacked photos, in succession, with enthusiastic commentary underneath. Anki was beyond mortified. She felt destroyed, embarrassed, violated, vulnerable, and ashamed.

I'm not going to post the web link here because I don't want to give the site more publicity or have its owner come after me in some way. And happily, the photos are down now. After tearfully breaking the news to her mother and the people closest to her, Anki waged an email campaign to get the photos taken down. They were removed after a time but then put back up again due to popular demand, because she looks smoking in the photos and the site's "readers" liked the fact that she is curvacious rather than stick skinny. But I checked prior to starting this blog and they're down once more.

While I was searching for Anki, I spent some time on the site scrolling through page after page of people taking nude, sexy, pornographic photos of themselves. It was both fascinating and repellent. If Anki's photos went up in the manner they did, surely many of these people had their intimate moments stolen as well. But many of them also looked to be desperate little girls hoping for attention and validation that they are attractive and desirable. And that made me sad.

Maybe it's my age, but I see these often beautiful young women so quick to give themselves away and I can't help but wish that they thought better of themselves. They smile into the camera sweetly and two photos later are spreading their butt cheeks for close-up as if the world was their proctologist. I find it shocking how willing so many young women are to photograph themselves in the most pornographic positions possible. The lack of self esteem is palpable and sad, from both men and women.

I am also saddened at how callous so many are about hurting others through anonymous comments, through websites like the one described above, or through malicious and purposeful attacks through the computer. There is a lack of empathy visible that seems almost sociopathic in nature. I guess the internet reflects the best and the worst of ourselves.

So what's the moral of the story? Don't take nude photos of yourself unless you want them to be seen? I guess that's a start. And I guess it would be nice if everyone stopped being so super shitty on the internet. But I know I'm preaching to the choir here. I suppose I just want everyone to know this kind of violation is possible and happens every day, so take care of yourselves and each other out there in cyberspace.

Namaste, bitches.

Another Party Heard From

2011-06-18T09:28:00.000-04:00

ME (sitting in a salon chair): So I've been really getting into silent movies on Netflix and TCM lately.

JOEY (brushing dye onto my hair): That's cool.

ME: Yeah, they're so visual, and the women look gorgeous, but with a completely different set of beauty standards. I watched Camille with Alla Nazimova and it was so sad and beautiful that I cried through the whole thing.

JOEY: Well, it must be nice not to have to pay a nickel for it anymore.

ME: What?

JOEY: And you don't have to stretch your neck up to see the screen while that guy plinks on the piano. That's gotta be good.

ME: You know, you really are an asshole.

JOEY: Well, I never! Sit still, I have to shave your mustache and it takes a steady hand...

Reviewing the Situation

2011-05-17T23:40:00.000-04:00

A friend of mine, who I have never met in real time but have spent some time getting to know via social networking and her awesome blog Metal, Misery and Mayhem, left a comment on my previous entry about the gym that has me thinking. She said that perhaps some of the rage that I feel towards the anorexic woman in class, and her in turn towards an incredibly annoying sounding co-worker, could be natural alpha instinct.

This intrigues me because I'm often trying to figure out exactly how much of my behavior is natural personality, and how much is damage-related. I struggle with my natural instinct toward cranky reaction to much outer stimuli found in normal life.

My equally awesome friend, Mr. Eerie Von of Danzig fame, says that I should simply embrace the fact that I am naturally crabby and stop wasting time examining the bitch lint inside the mental bellybutton. This metaphor is mine by the way, he's far too cool and busy to talk about bellybutton lint, metaphorically or otherwise.

And indeed, I have been crabby since birth. Bear with me as I share a few tedious childhood details: I was a difficult baby, or "colicky" as they used to call it. I cried and cried and cried. And then I cried some more. When I was three years old my mother wrote in my baby book, "Mary has a VERY low frustration tolerance." The word "very" was underlined numerous times, in a what looked to be a weary hand.

I think there was an enormous sigh of relief when my brother was born a year behind me and turned out to be the happiest thing in a diaper. He was roly-poly chubby and wore a smile a mile wide at all times. He looks as if he's giggling in every baby photo. He was as happy as I was cranky, from the get.

When the two of us were old enough to walk and talk it became clear who the alpha was in the relationship, as I dictated his every cheerful toddler move. I was always coming up with new plans for action that ended in him getting hurt, in trouble, in tears, and once on a bloody trip to the hospital for stitches. I loved my brother, he was my pal and it wasn't that I wanted to hurt him. I just pushed the envelope with a brain too young to follow logic through to envisioned consequences. And he was happy and open and willing to follow orders. I was authoritative: get on this scooter and I will push you down the long hardwood floor hall as fast as I can and then I will let you go spinning out on your own a few feet before you hit the radiator at full speed. He would waver for a moment, his baby survival mechanism holding him back. I would point with stubby finger. Get on the damn thing, what could possibly go wrong?

Once we ventured outside of the safety of the family unit and into the social river of ravenous pirahna that is grade school, things shifted. I was already bookish and shy outside of my home, and learned around third grade that I was not attractive, primarily due to poor eyesight and the unfortunate need for glasses with very thick lens.

First year of glasses, blissfully unaware that my social life was about to go straight into the crapper:

So I shut the fuck up publicly. For years. I was still Bossy McBosserson with my younger siblings, but outside of their orbit I remained a silent egghead, opening my mouth only to answer questions pertaining to sentence diagramming or algebraic formula. And although I wasn't bullied, I was a nerd of the deepest order, and did get the occasional mean comment thrown my way. It wounded me deeply enough that I still remember where I was standing and what I was wearing when Dan Something-or-Other called me a dog to his friend who had a locker next to mine. I was beyond mortified when I found out my nickname with the boys in 8th grade was "tits on a tube". The irony of this was not lost on me, by the way, when I noticed some years later that Sebastian Bach had bought his teeny wife a rocking pair of tits to go with her non-existent frame. If only I had known then what I know now.

But I digress. The point is, I have spent some time being distinctly non-alpha and I am grateful for the lesson of compassion that it taught me. But I never want to go back there again, it's painful and powerless.

Once I got contact lens at age 16 and realized that most of the boys in high school were nitwits, I was back in the bossy game, often by default. We'd be forced into work groups in Social Studies and everyone would sit there staring at their notebooks instead of choosing who worked on what end of the project. I couldn't take the lame duck energy, it was too much like wrangling my four younger siblings. So I'd yank the pad of paper out of someone's hand and assign tasks just to get things rolling.

And then all of a sudden, I was REALLY alpha, obnoxious alpha, like completely OUT OF CONTROL alpha. I was famous, sort of; I looked pretty good so guys liked me; I was angry for all kinds of reasons and cultivating a badass persona that had more to do with wanting to be Catwoman when I was ten than anything based in reality:

And I had a whole crew of girls who would do whatever I told them to do. I'd say, "I don't want to talk to her." The person in question would approach and someone would step in front of me and say, "She doesn't want to talk to you!" I would mention there was someone I didn't like in the room and someone else would "accidentally" spill a drink on them. Can you imagine? It was crazy. It was AWESOME. I still can't believe anyone listened to a word I said. And of course it was rotten and I abused it to the point that even I finally noticed that I was a big fat jerk. And I've been trying to find my way back ever since.

Luckily for the world, or at least New York City, it was temporary. Sometimes I watch Oprah on TV (okay, constantly I watch Oprah on TV) and I think, wow, I wonder how hard it is for her not to want to shout "OFF WITH THEIR HEADS!" every once in a while. You know, just to see how it feels rolling off the tongue and if the staff would start making frantic calls to locate a guillotine. They'd probably ring Martha Stewart first to see if she had one stored in one of the million rooms of her fancy Connecticut country home.

Since then I have sifted through the rubble of the standard semi-damaged childhood psyche and navigated through a day to day existence in which I have often been too quick to state a thought or opinion in too blunt a fashion. Sometimes something sounds funny in my head and then after I say it out loud I see the face in front of me crumple and I think, ooh, filter is clearly not working. And someone is then sad or angry due to my bad behavior and I feel like a piece of shit.

I have a third friend who will walk into a room, beam the widest smile, and dive right in with each person in the vicinity: what's your name, what do you do, your eyes are so pretty, are you married, do you have children, how is the cheese dip? She's genuinely interested in everyone. Her energy is open and there is never a moment where she looks uncomfortable or appears annoyed regardless of whether she's surrounded by strangers or loved ones. People step on her shoes and bump into her and she doesn't even notice.

I want to be like that! I don't want to be prickly and the one who always tells the waiter who gets what meal because I'm impatient and annoyed that no one has their shit together enough to raise their hand when he calls out the dish. I want to be gentle and kind and interested in everyone in the room. But I also still secretly want to be Catwoman and only 10% of the people in the room seem genuinely interesting to me. Small talk makes me break out in hives. I'm uncomfortable around new people. I'm annoyed by people bumping into me! Mraow! Hiss!!

So again, the question remains, how much is natural alpha and necessary for survival and achievement, and how much is just being an asshole? And how do you clean yourself up enough mentally that you can do right by your fellow man while still retaining the essence of who you were meant to be, of what makes you interesting and different?

Clearly I have no idea or I wouldn't have just spent yet another hour writing about my same old shit like it's the most fascinating stuff on the planet. I think this entire blog entry may be a flimsy excuse to post a photo of Julie Newmar.

Sigh...

A Small Piece from the "Book"

2011-05-14T15:48:00.000-04:00

A few months later, on October 23^rd, 1987 to be exact, Guns n Roses were scheduled to play in NY at the Ritz. It was my birthday and we were all pretty stoked to finally be able to see the band.

We met up at Lismar, of course: Betty, Pete, Glenn Benson, Man Ray, Brian “Cycle Boy”, Donna, Betty’s roommate Lisa, Gini and me in as much rock and roll gear as we could pack on: multiple belts, bracelets, and bootstraps. And because it was such an auspicious occasion, we all took ecstasy. Gini most likely abstained because she was smarter than the rest of us, but I hopped right in there with characteristic enthusiasm. Happy birthday to me! I swallowed a big white capsule of powder with Betty in the bathroom, applied another layer of eyeliner, and hoped for the best.

Two hours later at the Ritz: we all stood in a row, blasted out of our minds and holding hands like toddlers on a field trip. Our mouths hung open as we watched Guns n Roses own the stage in a way that I had never seen before. The lights wound around us and the sound thrummed through my body. The entire room vibrated; the band looked and sounded glorious. They were gods of youth and thunder delivering a rock and roll assault of epic proportions. I knew it wasn’t just the drugs, but they definitely helped the overall mood.

I grinned, turned to Man Ray and shouted over the din, “This is the best band I’ve ever seen!” He said, “Right??? Happy birthday, baby!”

I wished I had spent more time at the bar talking to Axl the singer about Axel the jewelry designer when I had had the chance, but it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered at that moment except the sound and being with my friends.

It was a pretty stellar birthday.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

The glamorous Lismar:

Man Ray, Pete, and Brian:

Betty & me in a classic "day-after" pose:

Mental Exercise

2011-05-08T12:39:00.000-04:00

So I go to a Chisel class at Crunch gym nearly every Friday or Saturday. I hate it, but I do it.

When you go to those classes often, you get to know the regulars. Most of them are cool: there's a model that I hate because she's gorgeous but I love because she's low key and nice to look at; there's a very young, frumpy blonde who is so uncoordinated that she's always on the verge of completely toppling over during the simplest of exercises, which fascinates me; and there's a no nonsense woman who could kick all of our asses but instead is very polite and accommodating to everyone in her path. The Friday class teacher is very sweet in the class, but standoffish outside of it. She has a baby bump and for months I have been trying to figure out whether she's pregnant or not. The Saturday teacher is a superstar black gay man, the class is usually too crowded because he's so popular.

And then there's me. I am uptight. Like, really uptight. I don't look like I should be uptight, I'm the only one in a Motorhead tee and tattoos. But my weights are lined up just so and I would never lay on the mat without a towel and I get testy when anyone encroaches on what I deem as my space.

I have a long list of rules in my head that no one has any idea exist but everyone has to follow or I get annoyed. Like, don't leisurely fill your water bottle at the fountain when there's a line of people behind you waiting to take a drink. Or don't sloppily throw your weights everywhere so that I'm in danger of killing myself during lunges. Don't show up ten minutes late and jam yourself in somewhere that you don't really fit, inconveniencing the people who got there on time. Don't clump around getting in everyone's way by putting your shit away before the class is done so you can leave early during the final stretching part of the class. Don't do a lot of creepily sexual sighing during yoga class. Don't wear tight, see-through shorts so I am forced to get to know your ladyparts every time you stretch a hamstring.

The list goes on and on. But I try to keep a lid on myself because I know I'm nuts. I take the attitude that the imagined transgressions are the Universe's way of teaching me to relax, to be patient, to stretch my emotional hamstrings in a modest pair of non-see-through pants, if you will. And on most days I am able to refrain from being a complete asshole.

But there is one "teacher" that I have not been able to decipher just yet, so I am writing about it here in the hope that by doing so I will be able to unravel the mystery of the strong feelings that come up.

She is a severely anorexic woman. I would guess she is anywhere from her mid 30's to 40's, it's hard to tell. She always dresses in baggy grey sweats, baggy greyish white tee. Her clothes hang off of her, her skin is grey, her hair is black and frizzy with gray running through it, cut in the worst Roseanne Roseannadana bob imaginable. Her arms and legs are mere toothpicks, it's a miracle they can hold her up as she hops around nonstop through any class that features cardio. She ignores the weight training segments and hops around on the step. She ignores the stretching segments and hops around on the step. She is moving, moving, moving, and looks like she could expire at any moment.

On top of this excessive visual stimuli, she's got a death wheeze that you can hear from a fair distance. Wheeze in, wheeze out, wheeze in, wheeze out. I find it beyond distracting, as I do the nonstop hopping, and I always pray that she parks herself far away from me when she enters the class. One time she was directly behind me and I spent the entire hour focused on the wheeze. In, out, in, out, in out. Gah!!!! It drove me mad.

But most of the time she's not that near me, and I'm still pissed off. I'm obsessed. I actually look around for her when the class starts, and I hate her with more passion than makes sense. And it really doesn't matter where she is in the room, she just has to be there to send me on a demented mental tangent:

MEAN ME: Just look at her over there. Does she think we don't know what's going on? Stop that fucking jumping, you maniac and get yourself to a hospital. You are annoying. ANNOYING.

NICE ME: Why are you being so ridiculous? She's got a disorder. She's not doing this to hurt anyone. Maybe she experienced some major trauma and this is how she's learned to cope. You don't know what her life is like.

MEAN ME: I'm not ridiculous, she's ridiculous. That bullshit behavior is totally disruptive. It's been long enough, she needs to pull it together. That wheezing is making me crazy, CRAZY!

NICE ME: She's halfway across the room, fer Chrissake. If you spent more time focused on working out and less time focused on judging other people, you'd have a better time. You're doing this to yourself, you know.

MEAN ME: Whatever...I hate her hair...

I have no idea why I take her condition so personally. Am I afraid of my own weakness? Am I somehow jealous that she is able to control her pasta intake much more capably than I can? Am I upset that she's breaking the rules? Am I afraid that I could fall into disorder insanity too? Or am I merely uptight and thus annoyed at having so much visual and aural distraction while I'm trying to concentrate? Maybe I'm just an incredibly crabby person. I don't know, I don't know!

It's clear that my problem with her is really some problem within myself. I have heard and read and experienced many times that the people that we react most strongly to are mirrors held up to reveal to us something about ourselves. But I haven't quite figured this one out yet, so I guess she will remain in my consciousness until I do.

When I work it out properly, I'll try to write something more insightful than I've given you today as I realize that this is a somewhat pointless entry. But I do feel better at having openly admitted (once again) that I am an awful person.

Happy Mother's Day!

Google Docs

2011-05-06T09:59:00.000-04:00

DREW: It's so cold here. I can't get warm. I've been freezing all week.

ME: I told you to bring warmer clothes when you were packing.

DREW (sighing): I know you did, Mary.

ME: Remember? I said, "It's going to be cold there, and that sweatshirt is not going to be enough." And you said I was wrong, and that you would be fine. And now you're cold, and I was right.

DREW (irritated): Yessss, you told me I'd be cold.

ME: I know. It's pretty amazing. I'm always right and yet you never listen. I think I'm going to start keeping a list.

DREW: Another list?

ME: A list of all the times that I am right and you don't listen.

DREW: Well, that is annoying.

ME: No, it's gonna be great. Hang on, I'm starting a new google doc.

DREW: You can't google doc and blog me all the time. It's not cool.

ME: Okay, here we go. Number 1: I told Drew it would be cold in Minnesota but he didn't listen to me and spent the entire trip freezing.

DREW: Please stop typing.

ME: Number 2: I always tell Drew not to eat pizza directly out of the box because it's too hot but he does anyway and burns his mouth every time.

DREW: I hate you.

ME: Number 3. Hmm...Let's think...

DREW: I'm hanging up now.

ME: That's okay, you can access google docs from anywhere. I'll email the link.

(silence)

ME: Hello...hello?

Hot Guys Who Aged Badly

2011-04-24T11:19:00.000-04:00

Against all logic and things that are holy in this world, I have eased into the role of romantic adviser in my dotage. All the men who have ever had the pleasure of my company are now doing a collective eye roll (or grave roll, where applicable). Because prior to continuing it must be announced to those who don't know me personally or are new to this humble blog, that to many from my past, I am a complete nutjob.

When Drew and I first got together, people told him he was asking for trouble. My own brother pulled him aside and said, "Dude, she is smarter than you, and meaner than you, and she will crush you like a bug. Run!" In this lifetime I have been called maneater, psycho, crazy bitch, witch, stalker, slut, skank, prude, pushy, obsessive and too nice. Most of which are true, or have been true at various times.

My very brief marriage after a long on and off relationship looked pretty much like a standard day with Ronnie and Sammi:

http://www.radaronline.com/exclusives/2011/02/video-sammi-leaves-jersey-shore-after-blowout-fight-with-ronnie

Note how she screams repeatedly that she wants nothing to do with him while following him around the house as closely as possible. Wise girl. Repeating your point in a loud tone while acting out in the opposite manner is a perfectly effective way to create healthy communication between two people.

I have wrecked rooms, started bar brawls, cheated, been cheated on countless times, slapped, screamed, thrown glasses, hit someone over the head with a bottle, hit myself over the head with a bottle, called obsessively, gone to jail for assault, broken up and reunited repeatedly, cried, cried, cried, cried, cried. Once I got so crazy and angry during an argument that I stabbed myself in the arm with a fork. And eventually spent a nice chunk of time and cash on therapy. And frankly, I'm still nuts. But it's manageable now.

About eight years ago divine providence saw fit to send me a very attractive and intelligent person whose imperfections mesh very well with my own, and who has the integrity necessary to sustain a healthy relationship. My first reaction to this arrival was to embrace it heartily for about two seconds. My second and much longer reaction was to examine it with a microscope for the fatal flaw which would send me back into the usual spiral of depression and destructive behavior. When I couldn't find any major flaws or betrayals, I made them up and did my best to fuck things up first, so I could at least have the upper hand when it collapsed. And yet, despite my best efforts at being the worst, it remained solid. Or rather, he remained solid.

It is the weirdest thing. I give him the side eye when we're watching TV and think, "You still here? What is wrong with you?" But after these happy years together, I have come to the conclusion that the Universe, in its infinite wisdom, decided that it was time for me to learn some lessons through joy instead of through agony. And my karma for that, I believe, is that I must pay it forward whenever possible.

So I give my friends decent romantic advice, not because I was born wise, but because I know firsthand the consequences that arise from pretty much every dumb move that a female can make in the struggle to obtain or maintain a relationship, or even a date. I simply explain what happened when I did the wrong thing over and over, and how it feels to get slapped down heartily by the hand of fate. And their eyes widen and they say, "Ooh. That doesn't sound good. Maybe I won't call him obsessively/date an alcoholic/have an affair with that non-single man." Sometimes they follow the advice and sometimes they don't, but at least I know I'm giving them solid information.

I work with a young girl who is pretty, somewhat gothy, and very dramatic. She suffers when it comes to boys. She obsesses. She festers. If I'd ever had a daughter she could have been just like this kid. Recently there was an office discussion about her ex, who she hates, but loves, but hates, but loves. Of course he's gorgeous, as those ones always are.

So I said, "All right, show him to me." She pulled up a photo online and there he was in all his sullen glory. To me he looked like a child but I recognized the heartbreak oozing off of him. The fine features, the great hair, the perfect shitty attitude. Ah, the potential for exquisite anguish contained in that capsule, I know it so well.

I said, "All right. Let me show you something."

I pulled up one of my ex's facebook pages. This was the guy that I really hurt myself over for years. Poems and sobbing and phone calls and long nights of painful obsessing and when we were together just staring at his perfect, exquisite face. He was so beautiful I ached. The thought of him touching another girl was unbearable to me. And of course he was ALWAYS touching other girls. I could not imagine a life without him and yet life with him was horrendous and painful. I suffered. Oh, how I suffered.

Back to present, I said: "Here's my ex then." I clicked on one photo. "Amazing, right?"

She said, "Yes. he's hot." I said, "Here's another. See how perfect his cheekbones are?"

She said, "I get it. He's great looking."

I said, "He was beyond great looking. Light bounced off of him in a way that I'd never seen before. So you get the picture?"

She said, "Yes, got it. Very hot."

I clicked on a photo of a paunchy, puffy, haggard old man in a Hawaiian shirt, sitting on a lawn chair with a can of cheap beer in his hand, and said, "This is him now." Clicked back to an old photo, "Then." Clicked back to the recent photo, "Now." I was like an eye doctor: "This one, or this one..."

She gasped. "No way!!!"

Yes way my dear.

I said, "This is what is going to happen to your ex. People get fat. People get old. Everyone ages, nothing stays the same, and all that suffering for beautiful boys, although enjoyable to a certain extent, is pointless because eventually they become your dad, belly hanging out on the couch, droning on about the good old days when he was in some crappy punk band. So you'd might as well try to enjoy your youth while you can."

She said, "Wow. That makes me feel so much better."

I said, "Good. Then my work here is done."

We've been joking about starting a web page called Hot Guys Who Aged Badly. I actually took the Tumblr url, but I haven't put anything up yet. It's not like I haven't aged too, and I don't want to be mean to people, there's enough of that online. Still, perhaps in the name of public service...