Surreal as it may still be, I’ve officially got a book tour!
First stop: Barnes & Noble in Schaumburg, Illinois.
Friday, November 6
6:00 p.m. – 8:00 p.m.
Woodfield Plaza Shopping Center
590 East Golf Road
Schaumburg, IL 60173
So, I’ll be speaking, reading excepts from the book, and signing purchased copies. And not on the street corner, but in the store. Go figure. I’m excited beyond belief, and hope y’all will join me for the first of many stops on my rock n’ roll book tour.
“It’s all happening…”
It seems I’ve elevated in status. Although I’m nowhere near the “famous author who forgets her friends” level people have been teasing me about, I’ve actually surpassed the expected “chick who wrote that book” moniker.
And I couldn’t be more excited about it, because I’ve just received word that I’ll be taping an interview with WBEZ (91.5 FM, Chicago Public Radio) in October to promote my book!
Better yet, Chicago-area readers will have their choice of Barnes & Noble bookstores to come visit me, because I’m working on a reading/signing tour now!
More details soon, folks. Be sure to check out www.morningneurosis.com for book info, etc. Thanks for reading!
Juliette
“It’s a coming of age story about lesbian vampires.”
Somehow, I doubt it’s wise this early in my career as an author to resort to lying to generate book interest. But five years writing the book and another two struggling to get it published seem to have culminated in one publicity campaign where I find myself at a nervous loss for words.
I blame my editor, really. In a recent exchange, she felt the need to warn me that my book is filled with “incendiary passages” that might “alienate readers” and that I should, in my final round of edits, consider reversing some of the “sexist and biased” language.
Were I with a larger publisher, I might have refrained from responding with, “Go reread my book, and ask me that again.” If my book has any point to it at all, it’s to not compromise on what matters most.
My editor was only doing her job, I know, and she probably knew that the likelihood of my heeding her suggestion was slim. Still, my guess is that she’s on the streets now spreading the word that I’m more difficult to work with than Bukowski, which leaves me feeling both pleased and terrified.
The pleasure comes from knowing that my book will be released without any compromise – that it is, unequivocally, my words and my story. That kind of creative control was exactly what made me sign with a smaller agency: I could use their editorial expertise to better my book without losing my voice.
The terror comes from wondering if I’m too stubborn in my convictions. Will my “incendiary passages” doom the success of my book? Should I have toned them down in order to gain a broader audience?
History proves that homogenation has never particularly suited me, even in the most desperate situations. During one of my last-ditch attempts to survive in Los Angeles, I broke my cardinal rule to never, ever seek work in the most homogeneous field ever … retail.
It’s not that I had anything against retail, really. Enough people seemed to make ends meet off it. I just viewed it the same way I did my then-boyfriend passing out band flyers at that ridiculous Valley bar Paladino’s: a ton of work for very little reward, and just a little pathetic.
Had my lot of freelance work not been so sparse for so long, I could have avoided that trip to the mall. As it was, my only other work option was Bob’s Classy Ladies, and let me tell you, it was a toss up.
Both jobs would force me to hawk wares to a clientele who would most likely be unruly and demanding. At least at Bob’s I had the added benefit of security backup, whom I’d seen first hand toss obnoxious patrons out the back door head first.
Apparently, they frown on that kind of thing in retail.
If it wasn’t for the clothing discount that I hoped a mall job would afford me, I probably would have wound up dancing for dollars in a cage. Instead, I packed up what was left of my dignity and hit the stores.
My preferred choices were all a bust: Victoria’s Secret wasn’t hiring, the bookstore was closed for remodeling, and the music store was going out of business (it figured). I half heartedly filled out applications at the mall’s department stores and my favorite clothing shops, but knew that my applications would be buried under those of all the out of work actors and models who got there before me.
Two hours of desperation finally led me to The Gap. A vivid shudder rolled through me as I eyed the window display: crew neck sweaters, the dreaded khaki, and more poorly made, low slung jeans than you could fill a sweatshop with.
Bob’s Classy Ladies was suddenly looking very appealing.
Every fiber of my being screamed that working at The Gap would be a miserable fit for me. I could hear the promise I’d made during my trek from Chicago to Los Angeles – that I would, no matter what, always stay true to my goals.
That certainly didn’t include working for The Gap, but really, how bad could it be? Never mind my general distaste for customer service. Never mind my hatred of authority. Never mind that in high school, the only summer job I could get was working for my dad. I put on my biggest smile and went inside the store.
The drone working the floor informed me that the store was, in fact, hiring, and called the manager up front to speak with me. The excitement at actually having a lead rippled through me like a parasite. Suddenly, the t-shirts started to look less hideous and I almost thought I could, with the motivation of a paycheck, be persuaded to don one of the white button-front blouses on the wall. What was happened to the self I knew and loved?
A very short girl approached me with an application in hand.
“I’m Betsie, the manager here,” she said. “Come into the back and we can talk.” Judging by the height of her ponytail and bounce to her walk, I was certain she dotted the letter “I” with little open circles. It was also a safe guess that she was only recently able to legally buy liquor.
I followed her anyway, and took the seat she offered in the hallway between the dressing rooms and stock room.
“You can fill out the application in a few, but let’s talk first. Why do you want to work at The Gap?”
Is there a right answer to that question?
“Well, I’m looking for a flexible position. I’m available nights and weekends especially, and wanted to find something close to home.”
She pressed me to answer further. “But why The Gap? Do you shop here a lot?”
My skin began to crawl very slightly. I could only assume it was my integrity taking leave.
“Sure,” I found myself burbling. “I come here all the time.” I just neglected to mention my typical eye rolling and quick sprint to Lucky, which was next door.
“Well, that’s super!” Betsie cheered. “I always like it when people come in who are familiar with our line. Now, can you tell me what the last retail job you held was?”
I prayed she didn’t notice my eye starting to twitch. “Well, my last job was for a post production facility. And before that I managed tour publicity for a band. But I have a lot of experience working registers, I’ve worked in extremely high pressure environments, and I’m really adept at problem solving on the fly.”
“Wait a minute,” she said. “So, you’ve never worked in retail?”
I shook my head.
“Well, I’m super sorry, but I’m afraid we need to stop here. You’re more than welcome to fill out the application, but I try to only hire people who have experience.”
“But I can do this kind of job in my sleep! I’ve coordinated seminars on cruise ships and run credit cards at giant industry trade shows and managed an entire crew on a video shoot. What makes you think I can’t do this?”
The words poured out of my mouth, and I couldn’t believe I was actually fighting for employment at a shitty retail store run by a fascist munchkin.
“It’s been swell meeting you,” she said. “But you just don’t have any retail experience. Sorry!”
I was officially a Gap reject. Once the stung wore off, I re-promised myself that I would never do anything that compromised my professional instincts. Sure two weeks later I wound up accepting a job collecting shopping carts at a local grocery store – a girl’s gotta eat, after all – but I’m proud to say that to this day, approximately seven years later, I still do not have any retail experience.
What I do have is a book that’s about to be published. And for all the “incendiary” language in it, it’s being published without compromise. Whether or not this is a good thing remains to be seen.
And just in case it isn’t, I’m working on the outline of my next book. Everyone likes a good coming of age story about lesbian vampires, right? Read the rest of this entry »
It’s official all: my book is in production! That means y’all can expect 100 days of shameless self promotion, followed by another 365 days of hard core promotion when it is actually on shelves. In the meantime, join me on Facebook and become a fan of the book. I’ll be posting all my updates, advance signing dates, lectures and more.
“Aside from the dead hookers in the trunk and a hatred for Canada, nothing’s up. Why do you ask?”
My guy furrowed his brow and gave me a sideways glance. Sometimes, he’s not quite sure when to take me seriously. And seeing as how half of that statement was actually true, I can’t say that I blame him.
Not that he hasn’t dished out a few head scratchers of his own, of course. He’s just more blatant about it. The other day in fact, while waiting in line at the bookstore, my guy gave me an amorous kiss and announced loudly, “You’re the best sister ever!”
We’ve grown accustomed to the odd looks and hasty retreats that seem to result from our public interactions; our sense of humor is something of an acquired taste.
Which is why we were shocked to see one of our neighbors approaching us with a smile not too long ago. Historically, the only thing we’ve exchanged with our neighbors has been ill will and nasty letters.
I suppose the cinderblock that lines the walls between residences in our townhome community has helped endear us to the neighborhood, at least in that it deadens the sound of our more raucous activities. And from a distance, we likely look like a completely ordinary couple: my guy always opens the car door for me, we collect the garbage cans from the curb promptly, and spend most nights grilling on our front driveway.
Up close we’re a bit more colorful; all it takes is one sniff of the murky green liquid in our glasses to figure that out. But the peppy little ball of curiosity making her way up our driveway that night seemed to have bigger interests than what was in our drinks.
“That sure smells good!” she called by way of greeting.
“My husband and I – we live two houses down – have a grill, but nothing we cook smells half as good as what you two do! And look at you, you’re both out here every night, right?”
The energy under her words intruded on the gentle buzz I was nursing. I’d been afraid our grill would act as a beacon to the neighbors, and this one looked like she wanted to set up camp on our driveway.
“What are you guys cooking? We should all really get together for a barbeque, don’t you think? When did you guys move in?”
My guy, infinitely more social than I am, answered her barrage of questions politely while I crept down from my perch. Presumption, even in the best spirit, has always triggered an internal alarm in me.
She burbled some more as I came forward, and extended her hand.
“I’m Sally,” she said. “It’s great to meet you! Isn’t this amazing weather? I’m so happy it’s finally warm. Do you guys play games at all? My husband just got one of those beanbag toss games. We’ll be bringing it out this weekend.”
I smiled and did my best to mind my manners despite a desperate urge to shoo her away like an annoying child. She was the first of any of our neighbors to attempt the getting-to-know-you game, and I didn’t want to burst her shiny bubble. I hated to become “those” neighbors so quickly, the ones whose house you eye when driving past, who you stare down as they take out the garbage, and whose path you avoid when going to the mailboxes.
Besides, I had a distant hope that maybe, assuming she could shut her mouth for several minutes, we could actually forge some sort of casual friendship. She obviously wasn’t close girlfriend material, and knowing that her husband was the type to go out and buy beanbag games despite their lack of children made his character suspect, but at the least they could be pleasant enough to have a few drinks with on a lazy weekend afternoon.
It was the kind of Rockwell-like scenario I rather like, but tend to keep in the dark, along with my secret love of wind chimes and mandolines, but that every so often creeps out when I’m PMSing or feeling otherwise nostalgic.
There were plenty of days like that during summer when I was growing up, where an impromptu barbeque would bring all my wacky neighbors to the surface and I could sneak sips from their beers and suck the yolks out of devilled eggs.
In those days, my family was only one of several seriously deranged units on the block. My father’s penchant for blowing things up – hornet nests, buckets of grass clippings, squirrels – paled only in comparison to the diet drug-addicted woman across the street who once pounded on our front door and insisted that Satan was in her bedroom closet.
I can still remember her frantic calls to my mother from the front stoop.
“Hurry! Hurry! Pam, you have to come over and help me!! He’s in there!”
My mother kept the screen door firmly latched and tried to sort things out.
“Did you see him, Linda?” she asked.
“Oh yes! He’s awful and red and he’s after me!”
“And what did you do? Is anyone else home?”
“I screamed and ran out. I’m the only one home. Please, come help me!”
Why she figured my mom could exorcise Satan from her home is anyone’s guess, but it was the kind of challenge my mother was up for. She is, of course, the same woman who enjoyed sending me to parochial school with books about voodoo tucked into my bag, and would feign innocence when the school called home concerned about my moral well being. An exorcism was right up her alley.
So she grabbed a broom, told me to stay put, and marched across the street. I’m still not sure what the broom was for, maybe “sweeping” out the demon – or maybe it occurred to her that someone, Satan or otherwise, really was hanging around in the Fredericks’ bedroom and she wanted to have a makeshift weapon.
It seemed work. My mother entered the house, broom waving, and yelling, “Satan be gone!” and “I cast thee out!” She wasn’t an ordained minister by any stretch, but if Satan had been there at all, he made a hasty retreat back to hell, and Mrs. Frederick returned to some semblance of normal. The next day in summer art class, I made my mother a Certificate of Exorcism (side note: it’s best to not ask park district employees how to spell words like “exorcism”).
That memory surged through my head as our neighbor babbled about cookouts and potato salad, and had it not been for the terrific smile it put on my face, maybe Sally wouldn’t have been so encouraged to ask for my phone number.
I could see my guy’s eyes widen when she pulled out her cell phone to add my number to her contacts; he knows very well that I guard my phone number more closely than I do my bank account. But there was something wistful in me that night, something hopeful and oddly traditional, and against every better misanthropic instinct in my body, I heard myself offering Sally my number and saying I looked forward to hearing from her.
Nothing good can ever come from romanticizing a fake exorcism. Sally called three times the next day, and with each passing voice mail, urged me to call her back as soon as possible.
When I finally mustered the energy to answer her fourth call, I discovered her real impetus.
“So, I wanted to run something past you,” she said. “My husband and I have an amazing home business, and I wanted to offer you and your guy the opportunity to earn some extra money working from home like we do. You can be your own boss!”
Sally was understandably disappointed when I told her that my guy and I would sooner harvest our own organs than participate in any direct sales business.
I hung up the phone and shook my head. For all the sarcasm, tasteless jokes, and general debauchery that my guy and I subject the neighborhood to, we have never, ever stooped to faking a friendship to forge a pyramid scheme deal.
And if that makes us “those” neighbors, so be it.
While accompanying my guy on a recent trip to Sam Ash, the salesman made the mistake of jokingly calling me a roadie. My guy quickly made the international “Don’t hit me!” gesture and I had to suck back the foam that was starting to bubble at my mouth.
I have enough trouble with the term groupie; roadie isn’t much of an improvement. I am neither. I am my guy’s girlfriend and bass tech. Admittedly, the distinctions are fuzzy at best: my own line involves a refusal to carry gear or work the merch table. And as much as I like to believe my ability to string and tune my guy’s bass at soundcheck makes me better than the rest, it doesn’t change the fact that I am still, at heart, a fan.
Still, I consider it a privilege to be a part of my guy’s musical career in all my capacities: girlfriend, partner, bass tech, fan, and even critic. It’s a complex balance that does indeed provide insight into the world of music that not everyone is granted access.
That’s why, as I watch my guy become a member of a new band, I thought it useful to create a primer of sorts – a checklist to ensure that we can both enjoy his next musical endeavor. I hereby present:
Top 10 Ways to Know Your Guy Has Joined a Good Band
10. He’s not replacing someone who a) got carted off for starting too many fires b) had a curfew or c) ran off to join the German production of Cats.
9. “Sweet Child of Mine”, “Iron Man” and “Jessie’s Girl” are NOT in the set list.
8. The band doesn’t have a street team … run by the singer.
7. The first photo shoot isn’t scheduled to take place in front of a brick wall or by railroad tracks.
6. The band’s website and press kit are not written and maintained by their fans or girlfriends.
5. Shows are not booked at clubs where a) the bartender is also the sound guy b) the drummer’s mother’s van is the backstage or c) a passport, concealed weapon and inoculations are needed to get there.
4. No member of the band currently owns and/or wears anything circa 1987, regardless of whether they can still zip it up.
3. Phrases like, “Yeah, we have connections,” and “We’ve got a label deal in the works,” are never uttered.
2. The merch table doesn’t include specialty items like cheap panties with the band’s photo on them.
1. When the guitarist calls to schedule rehearsal, he says, “We’re all bringing our girlfriends with us; you should invite yours, too.”
“I can find my recipe for chloroform, but I can’t find my recipe for bouillabaisse, damn it!”
My guy believes that I am the only woman in the entire world who has ever sputtered the words “chloroform” and “bouillabaisse” in the same sentence, but I’m not so sure. Martha Stewart appears to blink crazy every so often, and from what I’ve read in the tabloids could likely put the two words together to form a recipe well-suited for a cooking show from hell. Not that I haven’t mentally made the same combo, too, of course, but fortunately for my guy (and the general population), my crazy stays in check.
Most of the time.
Crazy runs in my family, I’m afraid. Mostly it’s been the Beautiful Mind kind of crazy – where genius comes with a side serving of compulsive ticks and maybe an apparition or two. We laugh about it more than anything else, and perhaps boast just the slightest bit as we regal each other and guests with stories that begin with phrases like, “Remember the chicken bones!”
They’d been heaped on a plate, a tangled mass of legs and wings awaiting transport to the trash compactor when my father got to them. His eyes circled the plate. Where I only saw the remains of a dead and cooked animal, he saw something more. And he stared at it for nearly an hour, unblinking and steady.
Even my mother wasn’t sure what to make of my dad’s catatonia. We cleared the dishes around him, held a mirror under his nose, and made nervous conversation until something snapped back in place and he returned to the land of the socially functional.
Two days later my father had the thesis for his doctoral dissertation.
I’d like to say that my own crazy has the same productive results. Unfortunately, I fear all it does is make my guy secretly program the local psych ward into speed dial.
I was half ready to make the call myself last weekend. Admittedly, I was edgy, having read far too many Martha Stewart Living magazines in preparation for a dinner with my guy’s family that night. I’d finally located my bouillabaisse recipe and was surveying the living room to ensure all was correct before I began cooking.
Rationally, I realize my home will never resemble Martha Stewart’s. I’d sooner jab myself in the ear with scissors than craft anything, and my idea of decorating involves displaying artbooks of industrial erotic surrealism on the coffee table and hanging a string of Indonesian Spirit Birds made out of multi-colored bandanas in the kitchen.
But I do take great pride in our bookshelves. I fell in love with them the second I saw them in the store – so much so that my guy had to prevent me from walking up and licking the shelves.
Since being delivered, I’ve lovingly filled them: first run hard covers, well worn paperbacks, framed photos and random things we’ve collected. My odd organization system likely makes my guy dizzy, and certainly wouldn’t win any nods from Ms. Stewart, but everything in those bookshelves has a specific order, and I can tell at a glance if something is out of place.
What my system doesn’t account for is the random misfirings of my brain when I am anxious or stressed. That particular day, as I planned a menu and hoped I could host my guy’s family with enough grace to cover my usual social bumblings, I lost something. My sense, my logic, whatever glue it is that holds my brain in place came undone, and as I stared at the bookshelf, I believed with every fiber of my being that a prized possession was missing.
A large amethyst that my father had given me when I was younger was supposed to be sitting on top of a stack of Charles Bukowski books. I KNEW this. I knew this because I loved that rock, treasured it and made a point to look at it and think about my dad every so often, conveniently forgetting to consider that he is slightly nuts.
I ran my hands over every single book on the shelves, hoping to somehow find the rock in a rearranged place. I began to panic as it became clearer that the rock was. not. there. Conspiracy theories raced through my brain. My guy had recently held a band rehearsal in the living room. Could the new guitarist also be a klepto? Could he have seen the amethyst, been entranced by its glimmer or thought it valuable and slipped it into his guitar case when no one was looking?
Or had my guy in a fit of playfulness snuck it off the shelves to test my neuroses? It was the more unlikely of the scenarios, yet it didn’t stop me from ambushing my guy the second he walked into the room.
“Where is my rock?” I asked, lips quivering and eyes rolling around their sockets. “You know the one – you made fun of it once and when I said it was from my father you stopped and it was on the bookshelf I know it was and now it isn’t and where is it!”
My guy looked at me the same way you look at a pet who has snatched something you need back: slightly amused, yet with trepidation. I’m sure he wanted to prevent me from gnawing off what was left of the sanity we both needed.
“Calm down,” he said. “Are you sure it isn’t in your closet?”
Of course I was sure. I had held it up and polished it and always kept it with my books.
“Are you sure you unpacked it when we moved in?”
Of course I was sure. I had packed it in the same box as the Living Dead Doll I wasn’t allowed to put on our bookshelves and the record album I meant to frame just as soon as I unpacked it. And with that, my eyes blurred, my brain slowed and it suddenly dawned on me that maybe, just maybe, I had never put the rock on the shelf at all.
My loving guy went to our garage as I sat with my head in my hands then, found the box I had not unpacked, unpacked my rock, and came back up to place it in my hands.
As I shook off my crazy and displayed my favorite rock where it belonged, I gave my guy an embarrassed smile, hoping he still found me cute enough to humor.
He gave my head a few soothing pats and told me it was all okay.
“I have my own weird issues,” he said. And to show me that I am not alone in my wackiness, took me to the garage and pointed to the license plate on my car.
“Look at the number 2,” he said. “It’s bigger than all the other numbers. I’ve stood here nearly every day staring and wondering why. It drives me insane.”
I looked. He was right; the two was bigger. I smiled with the realization that my guy is equally wacky, and he smiled back. Relief washed over me as he engulfed me in a hug, and I knew that we could both be freaks together happily. It was an unexpected, but welcome, ingredient to our relationship.
We walked back into the house, and as I turned to close the door behind us, I caught site of my license plate. What the hell is up with that two anyway? I made a mental note to investigate further. I’m sure my guy will understand.
“I’ve been meaning to chat with you, Juliette. Do you have a few minutes?”
“Sure,” I said, letting an insincere smile pull tightly over my teeth. I always have time to chat with Human Resources.
It seems wherever I work I have the opportunity to get well acquainted with HR. It’s never so much a testimony to my work ethic, but more a result of an overly anxious corporate environment. Here especially, seeing as how HR knows not only my credit score, but also the contents of my pee.
I’ve come to accept such indignities as routine in a workplace, and as I settled myself at the foot of HR this time, I braced myself for a request for bone marrow or spinal fluid.
As far as I could think, there wasn’t much reason to call me in. Unless, of course, my casual Friday Rob Zombie “Blood Mania!” t-shirt offended someone. Snark had gotten the better of me that morning, and the shirt I typically reserved for concerts and horror movie conventions seemed a nice contrast to the usual office attire.
But when HR began our chat with the phrase “ladies are talking”, I knew it wasn’t my t-shirt that was offensive.
The scene unfolded like a bad musical, and I half expected a gaggle of Ladies Auxiliary members to tap into the room and cluck their commentary alongside my HR rep:
“… you were with I’m assuming your boyfriend…”
(She’s not married, she’s not married!)
“… inappropriate public affection…”
(They were kissing, they were kissing!)
“… brought to my attention…”
(Look at them, look at them!)
“… consider the environment…”
(It’s indecent, it’s indecent!)
My skin started to crawl; I guessed it was a scarlet letter burning its way to the surface. The only thing I could think was: “Really? Are we really having this conversation?” Because as it was, the pitchforks those office folk carried were raised over nothing more than a single kiss my guy and I shared. At lunch. In his car. For less than 10 seconds.
Had my guy and I been pressed against the main entrance of the building, tongues a-twirl and clothing disheveled, HR and the Hens (which is SO the name of my new fake band) would have had a valid point about my perceived moral deficiency.
Frankly, I would have preferred that to be the case. It certainly would have made accepting the reprimand easier. Instead, I was forced to defend my decision to lock my guy in something other than a loose handshake in a place where Victoria’s Secret, when mentioned at all, is referred to as “Vicky’s” in hushed and embarrassed whispers in the restroom.
Needless to say, my rendition of “There Are Worse Things I Could Do” fell flat. I left HR with an updated list of things I cannot do: make personal phone calls, use the internet for personal business, and kiss my boyfriend on company property.
I commiserated with my guy at home that night, jokingly calling myself the “office whore” and predicting that the next time we meet for lunch, the only thing visible in his car would be my head bobbing up and down.
“Baby,” he said, “you can do anything you want on your last day.”
I smiled, and added that to my mental “to do” list. My last day had the potential to be very busy indeed.
There is evil in me. I know this to be true for a lot of reasons, not the least of which is the giant, shining, plague-filled zit that has grown on my cheek.
It’s taken residence just close enough to the bottom of my eye that I see it every time I glance down, a swollen reminder of two things: one, that the baby jesus obviously hates me and two, that my birthday is fast approaching.
Involuntary impulses have me checking my reflection every 20 minutes or so, as if I will somehow catch the thing diminishing in size. It only seems to get redder and larger and more like a panic button on a nuclear warhead though, forcing me to consider alternative fashion accessories like paper bags and potato sacks.
It is fortunate that my driver’s license still has a year to go before requiring renewal, as I am still living with the picture that was taken right before my 30th birthday when I was, oddly, waging battle with a similar zit.
I remember the DMV guy eying it when I confirmed my age; he was likely comparing me to his 17 year-old complexion-challenged daughter and wondering whether I was trying to pull a fast one in order to score beer.I find it slightly disturbing that this mark of the devil has blighted my skin again. Could there be such a thing as a birthday zit? It certainly has a repulsive sort of symbolism to it.
Maybe there is some mystic quack out there who could crack this fucker open and read the goo like tea leaves or entrails. Because I’d prefer to think that having this thing would offer me some other benefit than scaring young children from my path. If my zit can be an oracle of wisdom, so be it.
Still, considering the radius of facial territory it has usurped, I’m guessing my birthday zit would only confirm that I am indeed loaded with snark. My guy would likely agree, but he’s just mad because I threatened to kill his nonexistent ferret.
I come from a family of hunters and mink coat wearers; what else am I supposed to think when I see a pile of furry vermin? Admittedly, the ferrets were in Petco, and not the wild, which may be why my guy was charmed by them.
They were cute enough, I suppose, but not so much that I wanted to take one home with us. We have enough to contend with between my own shedding and the random balls of fur our cat yaks up; a ferret would disturb our happy little ecosystem.
“C’mon! What would you do if I came home one day with little Taco around my neck?” my guy asked.
(Oh yes, he’s even named his imaginary pet.)
“I’d turn him into a cover for your favorite golf club,” I replied. If I felt a tingle in my cheek when I said that, I didn’t notice. I was too busy crafting a mental list of Ways to Use a Dead Ferret. By the time I’d hit number 47, I’m sure I secured not only this stupid zit, but a toasty room in hell, too.
Not that it stopped me from giggling, of course.
Who knows, maybe my body really did create the birthday zit as part of some pagan snark cleansing ritual. It’s also possible it’s punishment for all my evil doings of late. Or perhaps I just ate too much cheese last week.
Whatever the case, I’d really rather not start my new birthday year looking like a cautionary tale, so I hereby extend my apologies to all those I may have offended recently: Davy Jones… the baby jesus… and even little Taco the Ferret. Cut a chick some slack already, would ya?
Random side note: My guy’s band recently open for Skid Row, and there is a 15 year-old me somewhere smacking the crap out of myself now for ducking out before Skid Row took the stage. (Sorry guys, but I lost interest right around the time you released an EP of cover songs.) Still, it was a fun night, and I always love to see my guy playing to a packed room. A few pics below, click thumbnails for larger images.
Dear Davy Jones,
My apologies for the amount of time that has passed since I last wrote to you. It’s been what, 27 years?
I don’t expect you to remember me specifically, of course, you being the star that you are and all. But one of the happiest days of my childhood was when I discovered a fan club address on the back of your first album. What was that one called? Meet the Monkees?
My mother had been nice enough to dredge it from her collection and hand it down to me when I shunned the standard kid music in your favor. I’d play the LP, grab my box of crayons, and draw pictures of us holding hands and going for rides in the red car you used to drive on your TV show.
I’m afraid the concept of a rerun was a bit too abstract for my seven year-old brain to grasp, so I must admit that I assumed your show happened in real time. Would you believe, Davy, that I spent one summer writing you a letter every week? You were my first crush and nothing was more important to me than connecting with you.
I eventually came to realize that I had been born just a tad too late, and that my letters (much like my dreams) had likely wound up in the same place as my letters to Santa. You were never going to ask me to play tambourine for you, you would never sing at my school dances, and the likelihood of ever seeing you in person was slim.
Of course, that was before reunion albums and nostalgia tours made it okay for bands to foist themselves on the public past their prime. When 1986 rolled around and I started hearing you on radio stations that played more than oldies, I was shocked and elated. Sure, Jon Bon Jovi was the new king of my fantasies (he never approved an album cover featuring him and his bandmates stuffed into inner tubes in a pool, that’s for damn sure), but as a fan, I’ve always been loyal to a fault. Just ask Huey Lewis.
And it certainly isn’t easy to be a Monkees fan, Davy, as I’m sure you can imagine. The ridicule I’ve endured from people starting with my mother (she’s a Stones fan) and ending with musicians who feel superior just because they always play their own instruments has been endless.
Don’t think that I didn’t fight their criticisms for you, though! It took a bit of digging, since there was no way I could ever claim that “Daydream Believer” is a good song, and god knows no one, not even you, can explain the movie Head. But I take my role as a fan very serious, and was thrilled to discover truly wonderful material on the Missing Links albums that I was proud to share with my friends.
Tell me Davy, why on earth wasn’t more done with songs like “Of You”, “Hollywood” and “St. Matthew”? They truly captured the feel of the era and can even be considered lovely frontrunners, much like Gram Parsons’ material, to the whole alt-country genre. Did you bury them because they were all written and sung by Michael Nesmith?
You’ll have to forgive my snark here, Davy. It’s just that after having been such a supporter of the band for so long, I can’t help but feel a small sense of entitlement.
Which is why I’m writing you this letter. (Don’t worry, I’m not going to ask you to reimburse me for buying the Justus album.) Do you remember the show you played at the Paramount Theatre in Aurora, Illinois? It wasn’t that long ago, really.
I was about to turn 30, and you and Mickey Dolenz were still touring as “The Monkees” even without Mike Nesmith and Peter Tork in the lineup. It didn’t really matter, you didn’t play their songs anyway, and I was just happy to finally be in your audience.
Despite the general campiness of it all, I had a great time singing along to songs that had been a part of my life for many years. Even the girlfriend who accompanied me had a great time, though whether that was a result of the liquor I plied her with or your performance is somewhat debatable (she’s really more of a Partridge Family fan).
Still, she was indulgent enough to follow me to the alley behind the theatre after your show in an attempt to get your autograph. I had correctly reasoned that the midwestern housewives in attendance weren’t as well-versed in backstage crashing as I was, and my girlfriend and I were the only two people to camp out by the exit.
Like most alleys, it wasn’t the most pleasant of locations. My friend and I tried to get as comfortable as possible by leaning against the least steaming of the dumpsters, while still keeping a respectful distance from your waiting limo. We didn’t want to freak you out by seeming overly stalker-like or fanatical, you see.
So there we were, two pretty girls, smiling and hopeful and anxious to shake your hand. We waited at least an hour, and had in that time gotten to know Barry Williams, your opener, quite well. If you ever encounter him, do pass on my thanks for his graciousness in that dank alley.
As a fan, I can’t say the chilly night air, suspicious rustling in the dumpster and odd looks from the wait staff at the restaurant next door really bothered me. Excitement typically overrides discomfort and common sense.
You eventually emerged, with Mickey on your heels, another 20 minutes later. My girlfriend and I called out your name and smiled. Do you remember what happened next, Davy? Because I sure do.
For the reams of paper I spent writing you letters, the albums I sought out, songs I memorized, and breath I used in your defense, all I received to show for it that night was a wave. No smile, no hello, just a fucking wave. Were this an episode of your tv show, your getaway car would have kicked up filthy water and debris in my face as you sped into the sunset.
Anyway Davy, I’m not writing this to make you feel bad; believe me, I’ve heard worse horror stories about David Cassidy. I really just wanted to ask you for one thing: the autograph I never got.
I’d consider it a personal favor, and a better conclusion to The Monkees musical portion of my life than the one you, I’d like to believe unwittingly, gave me. If you need my address, try contacting the Michael Nesmith Fan Club. I’m sure they’ll be happy to supply it.
Regards,
Juliette Miranda
