Rock.

I was trying to remember all the shows I'd been to over the years, trying to summarize my life so far in live music. I knew a guy once who saved every single ticket stub to every show (or concert) he'd ever been to. Unfortunately, it seemed too late for me to start at that point, since I was already, what...like 25? Which is a lifetime ago in dog years. And lately, I've been realizing that my attendance at shows has been waning. I am really not happy about this, so this will be changing.

I don't remember all the shows, and I certainly haven't archived the dates and times or anything, so I will attempt to recall them as vague impressions. Hmm. let's see. I think my coming out party was in 1983. It was the U2 War Tour. I did not escape U2. In fact, I really liked them at the time. A lot of people I knew from school went, and we all wore the tour t-shirts the next day. A couple of years later, I went to see them again at Brendan Byrne Arena for The Joshua Tree tour, and that would conclude my U2 love affair. The U2 punk phase was over and was transformed into the Bono Big-head Show.

After that, I went to see Billy Joel, again at Brendan Byrne, only because I liked the boy who invited me. I never made that mistake again. Here's what I learned: no matter how much you like someone, never, NEVER go to a show that you normally wouldn't be caught dead at. AND, if you like someone who is going to a show like this in the first place, you should probably question why you like them. Needless to say, our love was over by the time BJ hit his first notes.

So, between Pier 84 (which has since burned down), the Meadowlands, the OLD Ritz (and the NEW), I saw a buttload of great shows between 1985 and 1990. Keep in mind that some of these were headliners + support, not separate shows (just so as not to seem like I was at more than I was): The Smiths (one my earlier shows, and one I'm proud to say I was at), The Pixies (loved), Love and Rockets (kind of sucked live--Daniel Ash seemed like he was trying too hard to be cool and spent a lot of the set on his back), The Ramones, New Order (they were all drunk off their asses and tone-deaf), PIL, The Sundays (pretty, yet boring), The Sugarcubes (my boyfriend at the time smooched a friend of mine at this show, which I found out about later, and now i will always hate this show), The Cure (lots of pretty pretty lights), REM (loved), B-52s, David Bowie (too big, it was at giants stadium, and i was all the way on the other side, and so high up i got some moon rock souvenirs), Elvis Costello (loved), Squeeze (loved), The Church (eh), Let's Active (loved), A Certain Ratio (loved), Neil Young + Sonic Youth + Social Distortion (One of the gals I went with was tripping on mushrooms. By the time Neil Young came on, she was being hypnotized by her own hands.), King Crimson, Cocteau Twins, the Cramps (Many times! It was fun to see Lux strip down to his heart-shaped g-string throughout the course of the show, not to mention his creative microphone usage.) and.. um.. I know I'm forgetting some other important ones here. Damn. Oh... There was also the LIMELIGHT! Here, I saw Alien Sex Fiend (in town after a long hiatus after having their visa denied by the US authorities for a couple of years. it was a huge deal. all the goths were there.), Killing Joke, Nitzer Ebb (boring), ummm.. I can't remember if I saw Butthole Surfers and Skinny Puppy here or at the new Ritz. What I remember most about the Limelight was that MTVs "120 Minutes" was huge at the time, so Dave Kendall was always there, being a rock star in his own mind, running around and schmoozing everyone in sight.

Other notable shows in other places: Einstürzende Neubauten in Philadelphia. Don't remember what the name of the place was. It was a theater though. Like, sit-down theater. Not like a theater with all the seats ripped out for "standing room only." What was interesting is that I actually drove all the way down to see this show only to discover they were having technical difficulties and couldn't play. There was a crowd that surrounded their tour bus, throwing beer bottles and yelling obscenities and stuff. That was also my first experience with Philadephia. A few years later, at the same place, I saw Morrissey, which was interesting. He was in his gold lamé shirt phase. There were lots of gay boys with flowers in their back pockets, crying and clasping their hands like it was the most life-affirming moment they had ever known. Perhaps true.

During this period, I'll call it the stadium years, I started to develop an appreciation for the smaller venues. The big places were, well.. too BIG. It was hard to see anything at all, especially if the producers didn't see fit to equip said shows with a big screen. And then the sound. Ugh. There came a point where those $20-plus tickets just didn't seem worth it anymore. So now, as ticket prices top the "are you kidding me?" range, I usually pass on the great line-ups at the big places.

The small places that immediately come to mind would be CBGB's and Maxwell's. CBGB's had something in the 80's called "Hard Core Sundays," where you would pay like $5 or $10 and see like 10 bands at a time. I went with my friend Mike, who was into bands like Cro-Mags and the Misfits, and it was here that I fell in love with The Swans and got all goth and depressed for the first time.

Then there was Maxwell's. This became my Absolute Favorite Place To See Music. And still is. Number one, because it was 20 minutes from where I lived, number two, because it was SMALL, and best of all, number three, there is no real "green room" or "backstage" for the musicians. They walk past you like everyone else. So, after the show, if they're feeling social, you can totally have a chat! (There is actually another great reason to go, and yes it's shallow... has to do with a certain boy who works there, who I think is totally hot.) Best memories of Maxwell's: My Bloody Valentine, Galaxie 500, Cop Shoot Cop, Fugazi, Holly Golightly (playing this very weekend!), Reverend Horton Heat.. there are just so many. My favorite of all time though was my first mention. My Bloody Valentine. They were the LOUDEST show I'd ever been to. This might have been my very first Maxwell's show, too. This was also where my very first really serious boyfriend and I broke up. He drove a VW bus. He was not a hippie, he just liked VWs. It was cold and the ride home SUCKED. The actual SHOW, however, was amazing.

I was just doing a little search to see if I could beef up this entry with actual dates and stuff, and I found this guy's list of shows. A lot of these tours came through NYC as well. And while I don't agree with most of the stuff he says, it's fun to see what he thought of the shows, and then of course remember what I thought (if it was something I'd been to).

As an aside, my mother used to yell at me (still does, actually) about all the money I spent on shows and records. Looking at this list now, I kind of see what she means. All these shows (plus all the others I can't remember at the moment or are too lame to even mention) could have added up to a down payment on a house, back when you could actually buy a house for less than $200,000. Well heck, I wouldn't trade these memories for anything. Well, maybe some of them.

Beautiful day.

As yet another winter day shines on toward 60 degrees, I can't help thinking about how this one might go down as "The Year of the Lost Winter." I'm left thinking about the things I really miss. One thing I've always loved about living in this area were the winters.

I grew up just about an hour from here, in an area designated "north and west" of the city in weather reports. The temperature was about 10 degrees cooler there, and we got a few more inches of snow. We had lots of snow days (living next to a ski resort meant that snow days were ski days!) and became expert skiiers, snowman builders, snowfort architects, snowball fighters and of course champion sledders.

Before the roads were plowed, the absolute BEST part of the day, when the snow was tapering off and it was still gray and white and clean, we'd do a few runs down our hill with silver dishes that sometimes stuck, just to pack it all down, and then we'd bring out... the Flexible Flyers.

The hinges would be greased. The red runners would be freshly rubbed with candles. The handles would be tested. Usually, one of the kids would have brand new shiny sled from Christmas that creaked, but for the most part, we were all waxing down spots of rust and chipped paint.

With the course sufficiently packed down, we'd do a test run. And at that point, we'd start sizing each other up. Who'd take the crown this year? Who would outrun all the others, go the farthest (it was always the farthest, not the fastest) and go on undefeated? Like the year before that, when one of the kids' dads, unable to get out of the driveway for work and taking a day off, came out and raced with us. It was a legend we talk about to this day.

He got a running start, threw the sled in front of him, and in one slick movement, leaped on top, head first. We were all screaming. We'd never seen anything like that before. The poor kids who volunteered to race him were still trying desperately to edge past the starting line, feet first, to the point where gravity would take over. The contest for second place would obviously be a close call. And boring. We abandoned the second-place stragglers and ran as fast as our little legs would carry us to see how far Mr. So-and-so would go.

He was already taking the turn at the bottom of the hill by the time we started down after him. When we got to the bottom, we could see his distant form, still speeding toward the small hill we never even came CLOSE to. We all looked at each other, mouths open. I heard one of the kids say "holy SHIT." I'd never heard a kid say that before. It was a day of firsts.

Still running, we saw him zip up the hill and then disappear over it. We all yelled various arrangements of "Oh my GOD" and ran faster. Some of us got tired and collapsed in the snow. Running with ten pounds of snowsuit on is exhausting. By the time we caught up with him, he had already started walking back. "Hi kids!" He yelled. "How'd I do?"

How'd you do? How'd you DO? We looked at his tracks. He had EASILY gone past the part we'd packed. He'd gone up and over the hill beyond. He'd even started heading up the NEXT hill. And that's where we saw the tracks ended and the footprints started. How'd you DO? We couldn't even tell him. We all just looked at the tracks, where they came from, where they went to, looked at him. He was smiling. We couldn't tell him "how'd you do." We were still trying to process the whole ride.

That one ride changed our race forever. We'd changed our sledding position (head first!). We'd try out different run and jump techniques. We'd discovered that weight was the secret of speed, and so we piled on, three, sometimes four of us, trying to reach that zenith of sled-travel. Invariably, we'd lose one or two along the way. We'd even set up snow-pile jumps, to take advantage of our new-found speed.

We'd be able to get a good half-day in before the plows would come. And when they did, when we heard them in the distance, we would make a call to arms and get all the kids to make as many snowballs as our little hands could make. We'd hide in our snowforts, waiting, and when the plows started crawling down our street, chains clanking and metal-grinding on road, we'd all storm out and scream like banshees and attack the monster like it was a freaking holy war. The plows were, after all, the enemy, destroying our races, our jumps, our mobility. And we let them have it. Sometimes, I would look at the driver, feeling guilty for about two seconds, and he'd either be laughing, or of course red-faced yelling and shaking a fist. At least that's how I remember it. We didn't care. It wasn't about him. It was about the monster beneath him that destroyed our world.

Now, I get all excited when I hear about Nor'easters or Alberta Clippers or just plain old low-pressure systems that carry lots of moisture from Canada. I watch the weather like an old lady with nothing to do, except oh do I have stuff to do. I begin plotting early, dreaming of the pile of snow I will shovel, and later, jump into. Yes, I am a full-grown adult female, and I still feel the need to run and jump into large snowpiles. If I had a sled, you'd better believe I'd be challenging some kids to a race. And sometimes, I'll throw snowballs at the plows, but only if nobody sees me do it.

All tomorrow's parties.

This week. Party party party. One of my good friends turned 41. I met him for a cocktail at Swift. (We were supposed to meet at B Bar, but I got all scared of the swank; I ducked into and made him meet me at the nearest--conveniently located--Irish bar a few doors down.) There, we met some nice gentlemen, who showed us nice pictures of their nice children and their nice wives, who were all very nice-looking (the families, not the gentlemen), and who then proceeded to hit on me. After a brief exchange about how disgusting we thought they were, they left. I'm guessing to find other chicks in bars, since guys like that are hopeless. And I thought that we were just being friendly. You know, sometimes I forget how fucking awful people can be.

So THAT has never happened to me before. I mean, I've met the occasional douchebag (80's Jersey-speak for "jerk") who "forgets" to tell me he's married... but to have some guys (who I had absolutely NO interest in, by the way) who actually volunteer pictures of their loving wives and children, and yes, even dogs(!), and then try to actively make some fucking moves. Not to mention the fact that I have my dear male friend sitting next to me, who I'm actually trying to have a conversation with. Thank goodness I had my dear male friend sitting next to me, to whom I could now divert all my attention. I'm just left feeling really sick and sad and depressed and even farther from normal than ever, until a nice gal I'm talking to later reminds me that normal "is like Santa Claus." There is just no such thing.

Ok, fine. But do I have to have dysfunction jammed down my throat?

So yesterday, in keeping up appearances, I went to my very NORMAL in-laws for my nephew(nephew-in-law?)'s birthday party, somewhere in New Jersey with my husband. It was at one of those places I vowed never to step foot in. One of those places I pictured when I read Pinocchio, the place he ran off to for a few months to have some fun and turned into an ass.

It was in a building that looked like it was a strip mall in a previous life, but had since been carved out and opened up to form one giant, acoustically negligent room. I got a headache pretty much as soon as I walked in. There were kids running all over the place, video games screeching, skeeball clanging, indoor rides roaring, and the kids inserting fingers into various holes in their faces. There were buckets of Purell sanitizer hanging from the walls "for your convenience."

So the kids got to play laser tag. There were about 20 of them in my nephew's party. I got to watch the game from the "observation deck." I had never experienced laser tag in any form in my life, so I was looking forward to seeing it. The overhead lights went out, the blacklights came on, the goth/industrial dance started pounding, the doors opened, and the kids filed in and started shooting. There was something really creepy about watching 7 year-old children running around with guns, taking positions and trying to take each other out. There were kid-snipers and kids-in-the-trenches, kids barking orders and kids that weren't following them (and consequently, taken out, over and over).

I wonder, when I have kids (someday), if I will look at this and think it's funny, instead of really sad, as I did.

Damn, when did I turn into the most cynical person EVER? I need a vacation. Or a good joke. Or a nice place to live. Or something NORMAL. Maybe I'll take a day off and watch movies all day. Movies alone. ha.

Unbe___lievable.

What an amazing week. I saw a few more shit holes which I may potentially call home in the near future. One smelled like shit, and the other smelled like shit with dung topnotes. They all featured luxurious no-name electric ranges, stall showers, vile floors, signs that said "ROB ME!" (in the form of cheap locks) outside, and of course the general filth one would expect when living in on the low in a high-rent area. I KNOW that whichever I choose, I'm going to have to set aside a couple large (that's card-shark mob speak for thousand) just to clean and paint. Blah blah. So much more to this freaking drama, but I'll just say that it sucks and I wish so bad I could fast-forward a couple of months (years?).


Thursday. Holy shit. Went to CBGB's to a music industry showcase my sister helped put together. I was excited to go, not just for my sister and the band, but because it may very well be the last time I would be there before it closes for good. (March? August? Halloween? I heard different responses from each of the people I asked who worked there. Halloween came from a "reliable" source who heard it from a "reliable" source.) So many great memories. More on that in another post.

The band she's repping was very talented. Not what I would listen to personally, but more than sufficient for the Aerosmith set. One of the guys was a famous guitarist from some other famous band I've never heard of. Or maybe vaguely heard of. He played yoga-guitar. The first song had him slinging his guitar around his neck and playing it upside down and backward, behind his head. Devil fingers!! We stuck around and drank gin and tonics with A&R guys and chatted up the homeless peeps outside, who we slipped drinks and cigarettes to. Basically, everyone was waiting around because the Rolling Stones' roadie band was playing later.

I discovered that the requisite for being a roadie for a band like the Stones is to be a skilled musician in your own right. These cats can PLAY. And they played. And played. And... you get the idea. I met some straggler Stones' fans who informed me that it was common for them to A) play very long songs for a very long time, and B) have some famous names pop in for support. Hmm. I was starting to get bored watching the roadies' roadies scamper around on stage putting out all the little small fires that happen during a high-profile set, but this new information renewed my interest. But not for long. The jamming started jamming my brain: time to go.

On the way out: brain fart. FUCKING MICK JAGGER?! I turned to the door guy, thinking I might be a little buzzed and seeing things: "Is that who I think it is?"

He smiles a very suspicious smile, shakes his head, "nah."

"Fake" Mick Jagger was then promptly escorted down the front stairs with his entire fake entourage and I was left thinking that maybe I should stay. Nah. I left.

I went straight to the other, and possibly the only GOOD, bastion of live music in this area: Maxwell's. I missed all the bands and nearly missed last call. Thank goodness for friends. Hung out for a while and sparkled all the way home. What a night.

This weekend, more of "the talk." Fighting. Sadness. Temporary truces. Ugh. My stomach is in knots. Heard about a friend who is going through the same thing. Stopped into a certain little coffee place to pacify my afternoon latté addiction and overheard a man and woman (friends, apparently) talking about their very similar situations. Both of them. Luckily, the line was long, so I got to hear all the juicy details. I am freaked out by this. Like a sign of some sort. I am reminded that I am not alone, even though sometimes it screams from within me. Lots of people feel it. Or don't, which of course is the problem. Sigh.

I blame it on the music.

If I just gave in and listened to popshit, I would fall into place and be the happiest shallow girl in the whole world. I'm sure of it... I think. I just... can't... bring myself to spend money on crap. Oh well. I suppose I'm doomed. In the meantime, I'll eat lots of chocolate and keep trying to muffle the thoughts that won't easily leave me.

I (heart) hearts.

Sounds like a nice, pleasant title for an entry, right? Actually, I was trying to think of all the scenes of movies I'd seen, when I used to watch such blood-lusty movies, where someone punched someone else in the chest and pulled out a still-beating heart. I know there were a few, and I can't think of a single one right now. I was going to use them as an excruciatingly obvious metaphor for my life at the moment. Maybe I'll revisit this post later, but for now the title stands.

Speaking of hearts, my new TV husband, Chef Anthony Bourdain, (apologies to Mr. John Stewart, my former TV husband) eats a cobra heart and makes it look cool: make you strong.

Anthony Bourdain's Rules:
1. Don't be late.
2. There will be no Billy Joel or Grateful Dead in my kitchen. If I catch you visibly enjoying Billy Joel or the Grateful Dead in any way, in any area that I control, you my friend, are fired.

He was (is) the only reason I ever watched TV on Monday nights, and I felt a tinge of panic when I discovered he wasn't on tonight. I of course popped online immediately to investigate. Simply not scheduled. No explanation. Just not scheduled. Instead, Travel Channel is pushing reruns of "Stranded with Cash Whatever-his-name-is," I suppose to garner support from the Bourdain crowd. Anyway, I have to wait two weeks for Bourdain. I'm not watching Cash. Sorry.

In the meantime, I've had to entertain myself with the Golden Globes. I'm happy Hugh Laurie won. Happy Steve Carell won, although Jason Lee would have made me smile harder. After that, it was pretty much a yawning festival. So, I did what any normal, healthy American with a remote control would do. NO..not switch to the porn channel. Not NASCAR either. No. Far, far worse. Well, maybe not worse than NASCAR. But still shocking, really, considering the high standards I attempt to hold myself to (see previous post.)(see sarcasm.). I switched to... oh I can't even say it! Too embarrassing! I will apparently need to go to sleep extra-early next week to prevent myself from any further depravities. I choose ignorance.

Last night, I went to an all-out war on my ears at the Knitting Factory for a Katrina benefit. The bands weren't bad, actually. There were a few that I will look into. The issue I had, however, was pretty much what you'd expect if you showed up six hours into a 13-hour-long binge festival of alcohol and music. The organizers took to the stage in between sets, and judging by the speech impediments, started the binging a little earlier than everyone else. "Is eveveryone reddy for the raffafela drarings?" Oh yes. I am SO reddy! Wait, I need a shot so I can understand you better. Blah blah.

Why I'm Not a Hipster.

Things like this:

I like the new Madonna album. There, I've said it.

The lyrics suck. It received a 6.2 on Pitchfork. (In order to secure proper "hipster" status, you can only buy albums whose ratings are 8.0 and above. This is a proven FACT.) She rips everyone off. Except ABBA, which she actually credited. She gets Krazy Kabbalah preachy. She says "I'm sorry" in 14 different languages, which I'm sorry (Mi dispiace), is just really cheesy.

However, the wall of sound that accompanies all this craziness is irresistible. Even though I actually recognize an Apple loop or two. It's dancy and brooding and fun and cheesy and interesting and I'm cranking it right now. I want to jump up out of my chair and dance. Ok I will.

I'm back. Whew, what fun! My friends say I should be more discriminating in my musical tastes. I tell them they should take their brown-vintage-clothes-wearin, unwashed-mullet-lovin-hair back to Brooklyn and relax!

I like the new Madonna album.

Attack of the Bugaboos.

Ok seriously. What happened to Hoboken since I last lived there? I'm walking around today, killing time before my train, and I'm assaulted by Hoboken's newest, most insidious infestation to date.

Oh you know who you are. Here in suburbia, you drive like maniacs in your 2-ton GMC Antarcticas while your kids watch one of the 14 DVD players inside, and you cross over five lanes of highway without looking and without your blinker to get to the Toys-R-Us. In Hoboken, you travel in packs five wide, leaving no room for safe passage, and talk in the most annoyingly needle-sharp tones. You all just got your hair done and are wearing Uggs, ignoring the fact that they actually went out of style two years ago. And you have no idea what discipline means. I know this because I have watched one of you patiently comb your christ-like baby's hair aside while he spat in your face and screamed "nooooo!!!" at the top of his little devil lungs.

I have watched Hoboken go from a cool artists' community in the early 80's to a continuous frat party in the late 80's to 90's, to a bedroom community for the upwardly mobile in the 90's.. each manifestation maintaining its own stronghold as the next layer of gentrification took place. You can still find artists, and you still need to protect yourself from being vomited on on Friday nights, but I never in a million years expected that the upwardly mobile would move in PERMANENTLY. I expected, as in the old NYC, that they would make their personal fortunes, meet their socially acceptable wives or husbands, and move out to Long Island or Westechester or Connecticut.

If I had my druthers and the MONEY, I would invest in a school for children in Hoboken that catered specifically to the upwardly mobile. Oh there would be a waiting list. Oh yes. And I would control it. You don't want to let me past your twin-stroller, bitch? Just try getting your little darlings into my school. Yeah. That's right.

Ok. I really am not bitter. Ok maybe a little.

Whatever. I'm in a little bit of a paddy because as I was walking around, I realized it was January 12th and it was FIFTY-FIVE degrees. I want to wear my cute winter hat! And my galoshes! Yes I said galoshes. And my winter body armor! I want to feel like I'm preparing for a spacewalk whenever I leave my house! Just give me ONE day below zero!

Looking at the 5-day forcast, and still no snow in sight.

Meanwhile, as these January days turn into a sad, long spring, the jogger strollers are taking over.

Sigh.

Thing.

For lack of a better word due to the deficiency of language. I am experiencing a thing. I am feeling a thing. This thing hurts a lot. I haven't felt any thing in a long while, and though it hurts, I am not sending it back. The thing is here and it's not going away and it hurts and it's making me think about lots of things for the first time in a long while and is systematically shredding into all the layers of comfort I've built. I feel hopeless and reborn all at once: the thing is complicated (it defies words as I said earlier). I didn't want this thing. But here it is. All warm and gurgly. I apparently have to fix something so that the thing becomes a thing that I can describe. Until then, it is simply a very complex thing. Yes I meant to say that.

In other related areas: I have started looking for a new place to live. Damn it's expensive to live here. More than $1000 per month for a STUDIO. In NEW JERSEY. Apparently, I'll be needing to step up that freelance. This will be good. I know it.

37%. Ok, ok... 40%.

How I spent my New Year's Eve. Went to my parents'. Watched football. Drank beer. Went to my brother's at halftime. Watched more football, drank more beer. It started to snow. Went to local bar with deer head on wall. Many pick-up trucks in parking lot. Drank more beer. Watched football team win. Cover band played Black Sabbath "War Pigs" and "Iron Man" as the New Year rang in. All the girls at the bar, I noticed, had beer guts and wore acid-wash jeans, too small for their waistlines. C'est la vie, the men really dug it. Most of the men had facial hair. And flannel shirts. And yes, mullets. I suspected their matching pick-ups had shotguns in the back. Drank more beer. Went back to brother's. He showed us the WNNJ "Rock and Roll Fantasy" 2006 Calendar, where a THIRD of the girls inside were representing my town(!). (Funny, I don't remember any of them. OH that's right. They were MAYBE born when I was graduating high school. But you can meet them on January 21st at JRF Tire in Franklin.)

We drank. We drove. We yelled. We laughed. We sang Black Sabbath songs. We got sick and drank some more. And gosh darn it, I loved every minute of it. Happy New Year. Love, me.