There was a long explanation of how I came to equate the Wombats new look with rock stars who cut off chicken heads and things. The post is about how I met:
Iggy Pop at the Ritz in 1986 or 1987. He didn’t tear chicken heads off just smeared gross things and more. Somehow I ended up being thrown over a mosh pit. It was thrilling.
My idea of danger is traveling without reservations. The only thing that my parents ever asked me not to do was ride on a motorcycle and I thanked them.
When I was carried over the mosh pit, my life literally was in other peoples hands. I’m a control freak, but for some reason it was a wonderful experience. And I’m claustrophobic so i was a lot better than being stuck in the crowd.
I don’t really know why it happened. I had lost my pocketbook but wasn’t broken up over that so I must have had my money and everything in my socks or boots. The doormen/bouncers knew me. The Ritz was, I thought, the most comfortable dance club in New York except for the Long Star Roadhouse.
They asked me to come to the after performance party, and to bring my friends. The food was vegetarian and very good. It’s not unusual for me to remember specific meals after 20 years.
I was with Lucia and a girl who worked for the hair salon coop Rafe was a member of. Somehow at the party after the concert I got her a job with Iggy Pop which is really weird when I think about it as I had never met him before, and barely knew her. Normally there should have been layers between him and a job offer, I think.
I’m pretty sure he asked me if I wanted a job and I told him that I was happy with mine but I knew a girl….
Why do I remember a meal and not a conversation with a rock star? I was probably nervous, and I had been dieting which turned into a lifestyle. I liked to look at food, a lot. And I met somebody that night who I was to like much, but not enough. I didn’t know that then and thought he was beautiful, sexy, and basically that was it. We liked each other enough to not go home together.
In my list of life’s regrets not working for Iggy Pop just might be up there.
I have told a more complete version of this story somewhere in the archives.
This is national delurking week. I don’t care if people lurk, I totally understand not wanting to comment in a blog. If I didn’t have one I wouldn’t. Personally I’m in this because I love to write. It’s a way of trying out material, seeing what works and what doesn’t.
I can be self-indulgent at times because nobody pays me. Sometimes I think of putting a Paypal donation button with a tin cup and a cane, but it does feel like begging to me. I have long thought of making Courting coffee cups and salad plates in a geometric design. I really want to make them because I like envisioning them.
Then I thought sheets, comforters and towels, again because I want them. They go with my bedroom which is mostly steel based.
While the Courting shop is the height of self-indulgence it would look good with Courting Destiny: tales from the blog
That’s not to be confused with my memoir Electric Haired Chick:But, uh or the novel West of Broadway.
If people think that I’m delusional, and some people have made themselves clear about that, many more people believe in me. I can never thank bloggers enough for giving me back my mojo. It was dormant for awhile, but that might be a good thing in the end as it did give me perspective.
The first few years after 9/11 were crazy. The story’s more complex than what I have written here, and I think I will save it for when I come back but after I finish the second half of the last story. And write my memories of the three major blackouts I have lived few. The first is very short as I was a kid.
My aunt lived a few blocks up. When she called to see if we had power, she told us that my cousin Warren had started it. Yes, my sixteen year old cousin blacked out the whole east coast while putting together his new hi fi. My aunt seriously believed this. I have about three more memories that are equally as exciting. I promise that the tale of the next two will be much more thrilling. While almost anything would qualify as more exciting, I was grown up and in the city during the next two.
I’m going to focus on the memoir and novel because I never want to put up the tin cup. I’m a writer so rejection means nothing to me, and adverse reaction spurs me on. Stings at first, but when I was buying lip plumper the other day,and asked for Sephora’s best, the girl asked if I liked the ones that numb or sting.
“Sting,” I answered without a seconds thought. “I love the stinging feeling.”
The best numbs.
The novel is really my passion. I have to thank some marketing person who sent me a really bad novel to review, and once again, I thought, I can write something so much better. This time I sat down and began. I have never thought of writing as sheer pleasure except when I’m writing just for me.
The novel is pleasure, and what’s turning out to be a pivotal plot point is something that I have thought of often. What if somebody you know well and have known since you were eighteen turns out to be a completely different person than the one you thought you knew?