Thursday, May 10, 2012

They Who Walk You Through Hell

I was moved out of Sylmar by Monday. My things were in two small units of storage in Orange County. My two pittie princesses were staying with Rochelle and Brad was tagging along with me.

I split my nights between Frank and Abe’s place, though Abe made it a point to spend every last minute with me he could before I left.

The first day after I finished Doggie Daycare, I slept in. I was congested and the mucus in my lungs hardened. Even now, as I write this, I am coughing up reminders of my apartment in Sylmar. My lungs haven't been the same since the flooding.

I woke up and wrote a blog that morning. Abe was frantically doing my laundry and organizing my bag for France.

I kept saying, “Relax.”

He said, “This has to get done. (then mumbled) I am so glad your other friends got to have fun with you.”

I grabbed his big fluffy head and said, “Awwwww”

He said, “You have been staring at that screen for 2 hours.”

I said, “Well, it usually takes me 4-5 hours per blog, so that wasn’t too bad.”

Abe, “You just sit around and write all day. No wonder you get headaches.”

Me, “If I don’t write, I go crazy.”

The sad fact was the two people that were helping me through all the logistics of moving were spending the least enjoyable final hours with me: Frank and Abe.

Abe organized the clothes in smaller bags inside my largest suitcase.

I said, “By the way, I am going to need that dress you bought me (for the wedding I never went to because you dumped me) . . . for Cannes.”

He said, “She wants the dress.”

I said quite seriously, “I need it, more than the trunk of your car.”

And there it appeared, inside my suitcase destined for France.




 
My body was sore, my mind was roaming over everything. Even as I write this, I feel like I am missing a thousand things for either France or Antioch. It's been hard to sit down and let my mind clear.

Thursday came and I wanted to see Trent and Kent.

After paying my dogsitter in as much ganja as I could afford, I headed over to Highland Park.

I came in and sat down, high as a kite after lighting up with Rochelle and watching my pit bull play with a Great Dane named Herschel.




 
We got a bottle of wine and texted Abe the address, since he insisted on meeting up with us. I found his sudden persistence romantic.

My phone was dying so I texted him Kent’s phone number and said “Use this phone number”

He called Kent immediately and said, “I was told to call this number.”

I barked loud enough so he could hear, “I meant when you get here!”

Abe arrived and we were talking about the Tupac hologram at Coachella.



 

Trent said, “I don’t remember any part of Friday.”

Kent, “He went to Coachella and sat in his car to listen to music.”

Trent, “I had everything, LSD, coke, ecstasy, weed, shrooms, I mean, everything.”

Me, “So you didn’t see the hologram?”

Trent, “No, I left. Eminem came on and I just really don’t like him, but people who were there said it looked real.”

We watched it on his phone.

Me, “He says ‘Coachella,’ how is that possible?”

Kent, “I think he is alive. I think he taped it beforehand and he is alive.”

I shrugged, “It's possible.”

Trent, “They released a line-up for Coachella 2013 and it says Janis, Jimi, Doors, everyone! Patsy Cline! Nirvana. The Beatles. Michael Jackson.”




 
Kent, “I have to go if they do the Beatles. If I see the Beatles I am going to scream. I am going to be all over that.” Kent kicked his feet high in the air, with his ass wedged between the arm of his chair and his seat. He started giggling like a schoolgirl. I wish I had a hologram of that when ever I was having a bad morning.

Me, “Where is Whitney!?”

Trent, “I know, she didn’t make it yet.”

Me, “I am surprised her agent isn’t all over that.”

Kent, “Abe, you are so quiet over there.”

Abe, “I am just listening. Whitney Houston . . . “

Kent, “I don’t know why anyone isn’t releasing the details of her death. They are all being so vague about it.”

Me, “Dr. Drew was talking about how she was found face down, so she must have had a seizure. He was complaining on LoveLine that no one was really looking at the details properly.”

Trent, “She was found FACE DOWN. Oh God, now I know she was murdered.”

We all looked at Abe. He said, “Killed by the Illuminati. In plain sight. The ultimate sacrifice.”

A shiver went down our spines.

Abe, “Maybe she wasn’t the only one. A lot of those big names died at the same age. 27.”

Trent, “Janis, Jimi and Jim! It was weird all at the same time like that. One after another. The one I know the most about is Janis. They said that she was talking to the bellboy for 45 minutes before she died. She had just gotten back from buying cigarettes, spoke to the bellboy for a long time and then they found her, in her apartment dead with the cash, the change for her cigarettes, still clutched in her hand. Her friends came in and wiped away all the evidence, so that no one would get in trouble. But then they tried to put everything back to see if there was any kind of evidence.”



 
Kent, “Once the evidence has been taken away like that, there is no way to bring it back.”

Trent, “It was just too weird, her still having the cash and all of them dying like that.”

Abe, “Maybe they were assassinated. They all represented the 60s.”

Trent, “Yeah, maybe the point was to let everyone know that the 60s was over, and we all have to return to the way it was. Back to work!”

I let this sink in. That sounds disturbingly possible.

I don’t know how this happened, but Trent, Kent and I all broke into song at the same time:

Oh I want to dance with somebody,
I want to feel the heat with somebody,
Yeah, I want to dance with somebody,
With somebody who loves me.

I broke into the, “♪ ♫ Someone WHO . . . someone WHO ♪ ♫”

Kent and Trent kept my back-up chorus going. ♪ ♫

Me, “♪ ♫ SomeBody who Loooooves me yeah. ♪ ♫”

Kent, “Look at the straight white boy terrified in the corner. He is thinking, ‘What the fuck just happened?’” Kent laughed like a jar of gold.

Abe, “No, I am listening.”

Trent, “Do you want to talk about your dreams about me?”

I had told Trent that Abe had two dreams about him after Joshua Tree. One where he woke up and Trent was having sex with me, and the other where Trent was watching us have sex.

Abe, “What? Oh.”

Kent chimed in with a loud, “HE HAS A BIG COCK.”

Trent laughed, “I do.”

Me, “The legendary cock I have only ever heard about but never seen.”

Kent, “All bottoms have big cocks. It's ironic. I have known 4 bottoms, and all of them had huge cocks.”

(in case you don’t know, it's ironic because Bottoms take it in the ass and don’t use their giant, godly cocks for penetration)





Kent leaned in and put his hand on mine, “Trent’s cock is SO big I think it gave me colon colitis. I am serious.”

Trent, “He was in so much PAIN.”

Kent, “I mean I was shitting myself, it was awful. Yeah, and I asked my doctor if this is possible because I recently had anal sex with a large cock, and he did this, (Kent’s face turned placid and his voice went light and apathetic) ‘I don’t know.’ Just like that, (placid, light) ‘I don’t know.”

Abe must have been shaking in the corner.

We went outside for a smoke and were talking about how Kent looks Jewish. He has a big full beard and an Italian nose.

Trent said, “He is circumcised.”

Me, “Aren’t you?”

Trent started fucking the air, “No, this is in full form.”

Me, “I think it's traumatizing anyway.”

Trent, “I know!”

Kent, “It's not traumatizing.”

Abe, “It's like peeling a kiwi.”

Trent cackled.

Kent, “It's more like a chip clip put on the end of the penis, the tip turns purple and falls off.”

Trent, “What!? No its not like a chip clip!” Penises don’t just fall off!”

Kent, “I know, I fucking saw it at my nephew's circumcision.”



 
A man walked by.

We walked over to Subway to put some food in our bellies of white wine, tobacco and pot.

Outside, Abe finished yet another cigarette and we were on to Muslims.

Me, “Well, Abe thinks Muslims are destroying the country.”

Kent, “They are.”

Trent tossed up his hand, “See? Jew.”

Me, “la heim

Kent, “You two are racist. Bashing Jews.”

Me, “I can’t be racist against Jews. I want to have sex with them.”

We went inside the Subway and there were three little girls at the counter.

Two of them were wearing rain boots.

Me, “I didn’t know rain boots were back in style.”

The chubby girl looked over her shoulder at me, and coolly gave me the snottiest look since St. Jude’s Catholic School, Milwaukee, WI.

Me, “Oh, excuse me. Jesus, I can’t escape social ostracization from little girls, even in my 30s?”

Trent cackled again.

Trent said, “Pardon us.”

Kent said, “Are you two being mean?”

Me, “They are the ones being mean!”

Kent, “Oh my Goodness. Oh my Goodness.”

Me, “You are watching too much Little Orphan Annie.”

Kent broke out into song, “♪ ♫ You're never fully dressed without a smile . . . ♪ ♫”

We ate our sandwiches fast and before we knew it had to say goodbye.

Trent hugged me hard and started biting his nails, “Maybe I can come up and see you in Washington.”

I said, “Now, don't lose your job and don’t overdose.”

Trent, “Drat! . . . Golly Gee.”

We hugged more, but it was never enough. And I had to leave my two love bird in their nest. Oh Jesus, how I will miss them so . . . it aches more than the fungus scarring my lung tissue.




 
Then, Abe and I headed over to Sascha’s.

We invited a few others from work, but no one could come. I wanted an intimate night with Sascha anyway. She worked too much for me to really get the chance to spend a large amount of time with her.

I gave Sascha a gift; a skull ski hat, a vinyl Pavarotti collection and an edible to help with her migraines.

With each gift she said, “I love you.”

And then with the edible, “I haven’t smoked pot or cigarettes since high school. So this will be interesting.”

Her voice was drifting over me in the background as she chatted with Abe about marijuana. She gave me a Rolling Stones, 80s cut sweatshirt.

All my friends had helped me move the dogs around, move my shit around, move me around with such care. There were so many hands carrying me that last week in Los Angeles, it felt like I was levitating.

How did things go from being so hard to so easy?

How did all the fear, doubt and poverty lift in a few weeks to promise, opportunity and love?

I really don’t know.

Sascha had a bottle of champagne for me and kept herself drinking Bud Light.

Anytime Abe moved, her little chihuahua mix would attack him, so Abe sat still in the corner and fell asleep. He just wanted to be close to me those last few days, even if he was sleeping on someone else’s living room floor.

Sascha was sitting with her feet together and her calf muscles displayed a conglomeration of tattoos.




 
Me, “Is that a . . .”

Sascha, “A bigfoot with underwear, that’s right. And I thought that would be hilarious with a skeleton on the other leg in underwear. I was . . . special.”

Me, “And that one?”

Sascha, “That is from something called ‘Drunk Clip Art Game’ where we got drunk, covered our eyes and picked a tattoo. We thought that was a brilliant idea.”

On her ankles, there were matching tattoos “1134” right side up on one ankle, and upside down on the other. She said, “It spells Hell. I always thought that was interesting. You know Dante ‘s Inferno is about the circles of hell, but it is more about walking through and learning from the sins before getting to that next level.”




 
Me, “Hm, that’s interesting. Buddhists believe you have to endure a certain amount of suffering before you graduate to the next level of enlightenment.

I was on set with a Buddhist once, and a cockroach was dying. We discussed putting it out of its misery and the Buddhist said we would be hindering the chance for that soul to reach the next level.”

Sascha, “Hm, that is interesting.”

You know what else is interesting? 1134 is one digit short but otherwise the address to my apartment in Sylmar. Certainly felt like a circle of hell, now this next round of experience promises to be the next stage of enlightenment.




 
1134 spells hell, and to Sascha symbolizes the person you walk through hell with. 2011 was hell- among those who walked the closest with me this round, Trent, Sascha, Abe. My angels.

***

I want to make Sascha laugh. In all her profile pictures, she looks stone-faced, rock star and stern, but when that girl smiles, flowers grow on the wallpaper.



I was tired, slightly drunk and worried about not being entertaining enough, or not being poignant enough, not making this last night everything it should be.

But with the people you have the most to say to . . . the less you talk. You sit across from each other and think. Words don’t quite do it justice. The air and the alcohol and the sleeping dogs between you give the goodbye a stillness. It can’t be bothered with a sentence, when a whole novel is stirring beneath our tongues.



We hugged goodbye.

And I went home with Abe . . . for the last time.

Wednesday, May 9, 2012

How to Get Kicked Out of a Stones Concert for Dancing

Somehow I got Saturday off. It was my 2-year anniversary with Abe and the last Hollywood Stones show I could make. They were playing an afternoon show at an Earth Day Festival in Thousand Oaks.

My apartment, cave, hole in the ground in Sylmar was almost empty. There were just a few things and the mattresses.

We were packing up some final things and I couldn’t find a corkscrew for the spare bottle of organic rose wine I left behind.  Nevermind the time, it was only 11am.

Abe, “Maybe Dora has one upstairs.”

Me, “I think she is mostly moved out, but I will go and check.”

When I came back down, Abe said, “Any luck?”

I said, “I found something better” holding up an opened but barely touched bottle of Apricot champagne.




 
The carbonation was almost completely gone, but the taste was sweet on the lips.

We shared the bottle while cleaning and packing. It was a hot day and work of any kind was wearing on me. I was still sore from the Doors show.  I put on my pink pinstripe mini, a black tank top, and matching pink heart sunglasses, then we headed for Thousand Oaks. Work was pointless. 





 

When we arrived to Thousand Oaks, I could see right from the get go that we were out of place. White people with standard cut t-shirts, khaki shorts, pale skin and white socks slowly walked up and down the sidewalk to the shuttle that took them across the street to the festivities. How green.

We parked and I pulled out a teddy. “Should I put this on with the skirt?”

Abe, “This isn’t a night club.”

When we crossed over and walked to the park, we saw various vendors and a lot of police officers. I heard the Stones echoing from the distance. I followed the music.

Abe, “I am not going to speed up, because the faster I walk, the faster you walk.”

I saw the stage in the distance and hustled. 




 
When Abe caught up to me, we stood at the front of the stage where the Hollywood Stones were pink from the heat, the makeup and sun on their wigs. The lead singer’s microphone was cutting on and off, and only 3  or 4 people sat in front of the stage among 50 or so folding chairs.

The lead singer kept shaking the microphone at the AV guy, who fiddled a little more with the mixer. This definitely needed some StarFire touch.

I didn’t want to dance alone. I was scared like I was in the beginning, in 8th grade when I heard music I wanted to move to but had to stand next to everyone else instead. I didn’t fit in and could feel everyone’s eyes on me as I walked in.

So I tried to cajole Abe into taking my hand and joining me in the few feet of grass between the stage and the chairs. He sat down on a square hay bale along the side. Part of the decor of Earth Day I suppose.

“Time is on My Side” came on, and I thought because it was a ballad, he would join me. So I grabbed his arm, and flirtatiously stepped on his feet, pulled on his sleeve.




 
He said, “Now you are embarrassing me. I told you I don’t want to dance.”

I can’t expect everyone to dance with me, and just because men will make fools of themselves for me, doesn’t mean that Abe is willing to. I turned towards the stage again. I was so naked up there. Daylight, in the open park and NO ONE DANCING.

I looked behind me and Abe was rushing off into the horizon.

What the fuck?

An older man in his 60s tapped my shoulder, he wore a straw hat with a chin strap and a red polo shirt with something embroidered over the chest. He must have worked there.




 
He said, “I am sorry. I think I upset your boyfriend.”

I said, “That's ok, he always gets upset.”

He said, “I told him he should dance with you, I guess I hit a sore spot.”

I said, “I am leaving the country soon. I think he is a little upset about that, and it’s our 2-yr-anniversary today.” Should I mention we are on-again/off-again . . . eh, no need for specifics when speaking with strange men, even in a straw hat.

He said, “I would be upset too, if I was your boyfriend and you were leaving. That happened to me once. She left and broke my heart.”

Me, “Oh yeah? I’m sorry.”

He said, “But she came back. She decided she loved me. That was a long time ago.”

Ok, and SCENE.

I looked back at the music. A puffy woman with frizzy hair in a top-of-the-head ponytail, red pajamas and grey flannel socks was dancing with her much older boyfriend. Strange indeed, but a dancer is a dancer.

They sat down before the next number, and I walked over.

Me, “Hi, excuse me, I was wondering if you would dance with me.”

She said, “Sure, I can dance. My name is Norma. “

Me, “Hi Norma.”

Norma, “What's yours?”

I told her.

She got up and we danced. My shoes were off and I was dancing to the music barefoot on grass.




 
It was hot, everyone was staring and my legs felt as stiff as wood, but I danced.

After 40 minutes, the announcer came on and said, “Let’s hear it for the Hollywood Stones.”

I hooted with my hands and waved like I was at a concert. There was a few polite golf clapping behind me but it was otherwise a sickening reception for the greatest cover band ever.

Abe came out of nowhere and said, “So you got someone to dance with you.”

I smiled, “I did. I have had to pee for over an hour now.”

We walked passed all the Sheriff’s cars and Abe bought me a bottle of water and a veggie dog while I relieved myself in the cleanest port-o-potty I have ever had the pleasure upon.

We walked around and sat down under the trees, my head in his lap and a cool breeze to accompany all the high school girls in short shorts and standard cut t-shirts tied around their belly buttons.




 
Abe said, “Do you know what THAT guy said to me? The exact same thing the woman said to me at the last show.”

Me, “What did he say?”

He said, “If you don’t dance with her, someone else will. So I said, thanks, I know, I am a fucking loser.”

Me, “I really don’t understand why you are so sensitive about it. You don’t dance, neither does my sister and she has followed the band for 15 years. I shouldn’t push you to, I was just feeling shy. I think you would be happier if you danced. And I think my sister would be happier if she danced. But it really doesn’t matter, as long as I can dance.”

He stroked my hair, “Maybe I would. I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”




 
I said, “I really don’t belong here. This is some kind of suburbanite vendor fair.”

Abe, “Yes, its just some place where they can sell more plastic.”

Me, “Yup, lots of plastic.”

Abe, “They will exchange their plastic and microwave food and all their other shit but they need to call it something, so they call it ‘Earth Day’.”

He sat up and insisted I drink the water. I was sweating champagne. It wasn’t enough to give me a buzz, but it was enough to dehydrate me in 80 degree weather and a heavy hippie-cardio workout.

He sat on a picnic bench and I put my legs on either side of his lap and slowly lifted my skirt to show him my underwear. He gave a slight smile. Something about that jawline and sunglasses always excites me.

I turned and saw an overweight family stuffing their faces a few picnic tables away and dropped my skirt.

Abe, “Don’t forget where you are.”

It was 3pm and I heard the announcer across the park re-introduce the Hollywood Stones, so I crossed the park, taking in a final mouthful of water. The lead singer came out in his American flag cape and I said, “Uh oh, he’s got the cape on.” 


 

 
I walked over to Norma, extended my hand and bowed in front of her. She took my hand, jumped up and danced.

Out of the blue, a little 3-year-old girl came running up and danced. She was mimicking my moves, and I can tell you I know they weren’t hyper sexual because she was jumping up and down, giving me a double thumbs up from both hands as they took turns swinging back and forth at me, and waved her hands in the air like a hippie.




 
I avoided looking at the band because I was shy. Mostly I sing, I bounce, I swing around.

The little girl walked up to the lead singer as he tapped his wood guiro shaker in his red and white striped tights with a pocket for his genitals in the front. Norma tried dancing with the little girl and gave her a leaf. The little girl walked the leaf back to her mother and charged at me, galloping like a horse and smiling. She really liked the way I danced.




 
So I got low down and danced with her as much as possible. A father brought his little girl out to dance with him. The spirits of the band rose and we were all smiling.

About 4 songs deep, I made eye contact with a police officer who motioned for me to walk over. I put my hand on my chest, to ask if he meant me. He nodded.

I walked over and two tall, male police officers towered over me and started to speak. One looked over my shoulder at the stage probably noting that the band was disturbed by this happening, and said, “Please follow us behind the stage.” So I did.



 
The first police officer said, “First of all, where are you from?”

I answered firmly, “Los Angeles” (I thought, should I specify between Sylmar and France? . . . no, once again, better to be vague with strange men.)

Then the second officer said, “Are you here with anyone?”

I said, “Yeah, my ex-boyfriend is walking around here somewhere, why?”

Cop #1 (chuckling), “Ex-boyfriend?”

Me (stone faced), “Yeah. My ex-boyfriend.”

Passed the first test: I am sober.

Cop #2, “We are getting complaints from parents about your dancing. They say when you jump up and down, your skirt is flying up and one mother said you aren’t wearing any panties.”

I said, “I am wearing panties.”

They stuck their hand out flat in my face to silence me.

Me, “I mean . . . they’re pink but they are panties.”




 
Cop #2, “Well, it doesn’t matter. We can’t have you dancing out there anymore.”

I pulled down my skirt and said, “Oh, well, I have pants in the car but . . .”

Cop #2 nodded his head firmly, “Now, you can either sit down and enjoy the rest of the show, or leave, or . . . you can put some pants on.”

Me, “Its too hot for pants. How can I not dance? Do you hear this music?”

Cop #1, “If you keep dancing we have people standing by to escort you out of the park.”

Silence.

What

the

Fuck

Me, “Why are you talking to me that way? I am just here to enjoy the music!”

They both started shushing me, shaking their hands and putting their palms out again, as if I was about to lose my mind in a premenstrual homicidal rage.

Cops, “Now now now, we aren’t talking to you any way, we are just letting you know  . . .”

I was pissed.

Cop #2, “Either sit down or leave.”

Me, “I will leave.”

So I stormed off away from them, around the stage and immediately rounded the corner to see the lead singer looking down on me, inquisitive.




 
I threw my hands up in the air, walked over to my shoes, bent down so EVERYONE COULD SEE MY PANTIES, and walked away down the middle of those empty folding chairs.

Well, there were now 6 men sitting near the back, I am sure to watch Norma and the 3-year-old.

Out of nowhere, Abe comes running up.

Abe, “Did they tell you you had to stop dancing because you were flashing your ass to everyone?”

I grunted a “Yeah. But I was pulling down my skirt most of the time.”

Abe, “I know, I saw you.”

Me, “This is bullshit. They just don’t want me here. Fuck this place.”

I took the empty plastic water bottle and tossed it on the ground in front of all the fat mothers who triumphantly watched my skinny (yet pleasantly shaped) ass walk out of there!




 
I walked fast. I heard the band stop for a few seconds, then resume.

I was humiliated. Its a STONES concert. It was the last concert I could see until who knows when.

Did everyone hate me that much? Did I make THAT much of a spectacle of myself?

I J-walked in front of the shuttles of able bodied white people and charged around the empty carnival equipment waiting to burn oil in honor of the Earth. Then I leaned up against Abe’s car and waited for him to catch up.

He did and I sat down in the car with the door open and asked for a cigarette.

We smoked in silence as tears ran down my plastic, pink hearts.

Me, “Am I that much of an embarrassment? That the police have to intervene and threaten me?”

Abe sighed, “No baby, you’re awesome.”

Me, “I wasn’t overtly sexual.”

Abe, “You really weren’t.”

Me, “And I was dancing with that 3 yr old the last two songs, how terrible could I be?”

Abe, “The mom left with her right as they took you behind stage. They had you back there for a long time. I was going to go back there. It was over two minutes and I told myself, ‘One more minute, and I am heading back there.”

Me, “Fuck this place. I hate all these people. They just didn’t want me here because I am different.”

Abe, “Its a family event.”

Me, “But it's THE STONES. The songs are either about sex or drugs. I mean, ‘I’m the bleeding volcano?”




 
Abe, “I heard them play your song.”

I smiled. I had been obsessing over “She’s So Cold”. Well, that was two obsessions ago. Now it was “Emotional Rescue”.

We started driving out of that pit, away from the manicured lawns, and the baseball hats and the white children with great posture and clear skin.

He put on his ipod and “I Can’t Get No (Satisaction)” came on.

And I try
And I try
And I try
And I tryyy . . .

Me, “I like that you put on my music to calm me down.”

Abe, “I don’t know what else to do.”

Me, “It works.”

Abe, “You are great. Everyone loves you. You got people dancing. The band loves you. Try not to let it get to you.”

Silence.

Me, “PIGS!”




 

Abe, “Hey, at least you didn’t wear that teddy. Can you imagine?”

Yeah. I can.

I got on Facebook and wrote on the band’s wall:

Am I the only fan who has been kicked out of your show for dancing? In a public park? On Earth Day? Jesus, if that doesnt make me your #1 fan, I don't know what does.”
Like · · April 28 at 5:18pm near Thousand Oaks, CA

Abe said, “Way to fit in that you are their #1 fan.”

It was on the 118 FWY, an hour and a half after the show, that I checked my Facebook and saw that the band wrote back.

Me, “Hey, they responded to my wall post.”




 
We hovered over my phone and read:

Your dancing was the most inspirarional thing for us during the show! I don't understand how dancing is "bad" for the environment. We owe you a Hollywood stones t-shirt!
April 28 at 6:34pm via · Unlike ·

Me: “♥ I am off to France for awhile. I don't know when I will be back, so I was trying to fit in as many shows as possible. I will hit a show as soon as I can and collect that t-shirt ♥April 28 at 7:22pm via mobile · Like

Abe groaned, “Well mission accomplished, the band knows who you are now.”

I giggled. I said, “Now it all feels worth it, damn it.”

As Frank later said, “It really is a badge of honor.”

We headed back to my place and smoked a bowl in the dust from my landlord’s mercedes.

Abe, “Your landlord just checked out your ass.”

Me, “Who hasn’t?”

We ran into our neighbor, a nice Hispanic pool cleaner who lived upstairs with his longtime girlfriend and their teenage son.

Abe said, “And they told her she couldn’t dance anymore because her skirt was flying up. But you couldn’t see more than the curve of her ass.”

Me, “AND . . . its a Rolling Stones concert.”

Neighbor, “That’s ridiculous. You know Phil, the old neighbor that used to live here, he saw all those guys in concert back in the day. The real guys, Hendrix ... all of them.”

I got perky and smiled. Gold dust.

Neighbor, “He said, back then Burbank had a sign that said, ‘Welcome to Burbank, Niggers Must Be Gone by Dark.”

We fell silent.

Neighbor, “Thats not too long ago.”

We said goodnight.

Neighbor, “You staying here or somewhere else.”

Me, “I can’t stay here anymore, its just too much. All of it.”

Abe, “I am taking her and the dogs to a motel. Its just too dirty in there. I want her to sleep some place nice.”

Neighbor, “That will come back to you someday, taking care of her like this.”

I smiled at him as he put out his cigarette and shook his head.

He is the best ex-boyfriend a girl could ask for.

We all piled into my car and got a room at the Motel 6 in Sylmar. My head started throbbing with a migraine. The crying, the champagne, the sun all were the perfect combination for a killer migraine.

I laid down and begged for some pot.

Abe packed a bowl. Walked my dogs and I woke up the next morning almost completely back together.

We made love on our Queen bed, while the dogs watched from the other.




 
He said, “I am really going to miss you.”

I buried my head in his shoulder. I wasn’t ready to get sentimental. I was too happy. My life was just beginning, but I would have to lose my best friend first.

***

I usually check my phone after sex, and I said, “The band wrote back to me again:

‘(StarFire), Have a safe journey. The shirt will be waiting for you when you get back. see the guitarist with the Gold Les Paul:)
April 29 at 11:41am · Unlike ·


Well, LA, you just won’t let me go, will you? Now I have to come back.

I wrote: “More incentive to find my way back to LA. See ya soon! Save my spot. :-) xo”
April 29 at 3:42pm via mobile · Like




The Doors (Ray Manzarek and Robby Krieger) were playing once again with Dave Brock on vocals on April 26th.

We were all running late that day. Abe bought tickets last minute but had to work  and I spent the afternoon with Jeph touring the LACMA museum.




Drifting through modern art, we sat in each other’s silences, talked about the Surrealist Women’s Exhibit.








And we spoke about little things. Jeph is my oldest friend in Los Angeles. Always sporting a Hawaiian shirt and an off-the-wall positive attitude, it's easy to be his friend.



We walked along the tar pits and wandered in the museum like it was cavities of someone else’s mind.




Then I left him to rush over to Frank’s, where the dogs were, and get ready for the Doors show in Anaheim.
I was exhausted, and Frank trapped me in his living room with Stones music. He said, “You seem to be more into the Stones these days.”

I said, “No. I love dancing to the Stones, but once I start listening to Doors music, I obsess.”

No one really knows what to expect when you say something like that. Most of the time, people usually think I am exaggerating or being dramatic. I have had to ration Doors music earlier in my life, just to get on with things. I get stuck sometimes, listening to them. Trapped in a melody, trapped in time. It's difficult to function, so often I avoid Doors music all together until everything around me has changed, and the routine shifts.

I wore a simple hippie t-shirt with birds and hearts, skinny jeans, and danced out the door as Frank tempted me with one last Stones song.

I made good time in traffic and arrived to Downtown Disney about an hour before they were scheduled to hit the stage.




I waited in line, looking for  Cece, the girl who hustled the last Doors show with me at the Whiskey in August. I didn’t see her or Abe anywhere. I also couldn’t get a signal to call or text anyone. If Abe could find me in Joshua Tree, he could find me here, right?

The line snaked around the entrance a few times, so I just got in line after will call and waited. Funny enough, the man in front of me was an American who lived in Paris, and the three men behind me were French. 
Charming, middle-aged and wonderfully flirtatious, they kept my attention on what museums to see, what to look for and what to eat.




When the line started moving, they bought me a drink, and soon I drifted away looking for my friends. I turned into CeCe and got an enormous hug. She and her boyfriend greeted me and we all went to the bathroom.

On the way out of the bathroom, I ran into Abe. We hugged and pecked- he swung around to the bathroom and returned for introductions. He always thinks people act weird around him. Its that high school reject in him I identify with, but he hasn’t yet learned from that life. Its pure perception.

We made our way to the bottom floor by the stage. It was incredibly crowded. Abe said, “It will take too long to get a beer down here, so I am going to go upstairs, ok?”

I held onto his hand and reluctantly let it go.

CeCe, her man and I got a spot at the end of the bar, on the far right of the stage. A young man of about 25 wavered back and forth, staring at me.

CeCe said, “I think you have a fan.”

I smiled and waved. He lazily opened his eyes a little and raised those plump lips into a bigger smile. He was handsome and very, very drunk.

I said, “It's so easy to make new friends here.”

The lights went out and the music for Carmina Burana: Introduction burst from the speakers, which is odd since it is on the soundtrack for the film (I know no other affiliation) and I happen to know Ray Manzarek hated the Doors movie. Then “Roadhouse Blues” kicked in.



I frantically looked for Abe, pushing through so many people, their perfume and sweat rubbed off on me. I made my way all the way to the staircase to the upper level . . . no Abe.

The music . . .

The music was calling me.

I slid, and excused myself, and pushed, and wiggled my way back to the spot by the stage and danced.
This time, Dave Brock toned down his over-sexualized, bawdy Morrison impression and just sang the music with an occasional leap in the air.

I danced, and my drunk boy fan turned towards me and put his hand on his heart, stumbling back. I laughed. He was adorable, though totally gone.

We danced through “Break on Through” and then “When the Music’s Over”. At that point, despite knocking into me and another woman, he knocked into a short Hispanic man, forcing his drink to spill. The Hispanic man didn’t like that and Drunk boy’s friend intervened. Then security escorted him out.

That sucked.

I sang and danced.

I want to hear
I want to hear
The scream of the butterfly”

Then they did “Moonlight Drive” one of my favorites. This is where the group singing died out and only the hardcore fans kept singing along. Ray even sang “Horse Latitudes” which is an unusual track and even hard to listen to.

Next song was “Wild Child” from the Soft Parade album (considered their weakest album but I feel it is sorely underrated), then “Rock Me” . . . oh Rock Me . . . the song that might get me to close my eyes and make love to any man like he is Jim Morrison.




“My Eyes Have Seen You” from Strange Days . . . “Love Me Two Times” . . . then “Not to Touch the Earth” . . . . mmmm. What a great arrangement, even better than the Whiskey I think.

Was it around”Touch Me” that a group of three fat girls pushed me out of the way to dance next to the stage. I didn’t mind, I was deep in the music. My dancing was in the corner under a shadow, where only my friends and an older man in his 60s could really see me.

The girls noticed me, and one grabbed my arm and said, “I love you.”

I said, “Thank you.”

Then she pushed me up to the stage, she said, “You belong here, come here.”

I resisted at first, but knew in a matter of seconds, all these people would smell my BO. I was dancing so hard, no amount of perfume or deodorant could possibly mask the Minestrone-esque scent pouring out of my body.

So I got up near the corner of the stage and found myself next to the giant speaker on stage left.

“LA Woman” came on, a song a few close friends consider my mantra. It's a tragic mantra, but if its Doors, I will take it.




The burn of the opening music shook the speaker, and I felt the sound move like wind against my body. I knew my hearing was going to take a hit standing next to this thing. The music seduced me. It was that point when there is nothing but a thin pair of cotton panties between you and a man. The point of no return.

I leaned up against the speaker and started rocking with the music. Security showed up, but politely wedged themselves between me and the audience.  They were going to let me stay there. I was propped up high enough that I was dancing just over everyone’s heads but also just below the stage, visible to Ray on keyboards.

Are you a lucky little lady in the City of Light
Or just another lost angel . . . City of Night
City of Night, City of Night, City of Night whoa, come on!

The music was pounding through my back and I braced myself against the speaker with one arm as I danced like a Go-Go dancer. I sang so hard my lungs scorched through the thumping of bass.

Everyone sang.

Drivin' down your freeways
Midnight alleys roam
Cops in cars
in Topless Bars
Never saw a woman,
So alone . . . so alone . . .



Dave Brock groaned the lyrics and I watched his hair bounce. From a distance if I squint a little, he could pass for Jim.

The song slowed and throbbed against my butt, and I rubbed myself all over that speaker like a cat slithering on catnip.

I wouldn’t say that dancing is usually sexy for me, though that seems a ridiculous thing to say since you are moving your body to a beat. And I know when people see me dancing hard for 90 minutes or more, the thought occurs to them, “I wonder what she’s like in bed.”

The woman who tapped Abe’s shoulder at the Brixton during the Stones show said, “She is just getting started, you are in for a long night.”

I think it's humorous. I don’t mind people commenting on my dancing since it does become such a spectacle. And little did she know that the one who can last a long time is Abe. So I won’t deny that my dancing always has a sexual element, despite my overall feeling that it is not overtly sexual.

The exception was this night, at the House of Blues.

That speaker was a hot bed of rhythm and heat.



It was making love to me, saying everything I knew by heart, everything I wanted to hear . . .

“If they say I never loved you . . .
You know they are a liar.”

Gently slapping my ass with building speed, air blowing on the back of my neck and through my hair I fought my reluctance to stop. I wanted to die there, and let the music shake me into smoking embers.

The band bowed off stage, at which point we all started screaming. My throat was dry and cracking.
“Ray? Robby? Please? Don’t stop. More!!!!!!”

They came back out, the lights and cheers from the crowd rose like it was all orchestrated from a hidden booth.

“Riders on the Storm” drizzled on through the speakers, like the mist before a storm. I rocked back and forth against the speaker and sang with Dave in that erotic whisper.

Ray introduced “Light my Fire” next and I curled my upper lip. Of course. Let’s do “Light My Fire” in case we didn’t hear it 4,000 times on the radio earlier that day.

It is my least favorite Doors song, but when it started, the lights turned orange and yellow and my experience took a new level.

At this point, I could see Ray smiling from afar as he pressed hard on the keyboard. I felt like the band knew I was there and enjoyed pushing and stroking the instruments as my body responded from 25 ft. away. It was like strings were tugging on my limbs and hips, and they were the puppeteers.

I anticipated the beat, but felt their breath move me from the speakers and gently push me to their cues.
Was Ray looking at me? Was he smiling at me?

The song went on for its extended length, Ray played the keyboard with his foot again and I was soaking wet all over the place. I mean . . . all over the place.




When they stopped, they bowed, and I screamed for them not to go. They didn’t look my direction.
Here, yeah, I almost started crying.

“Please? PLEASE! NOO!”

Robby handed out guitar picks to everyone in the front but completely avoided my wing of the stage. This I took very personally. WHAT THE FUCK?

The play lists were thrown out to the crowd, and people grabbed for them, tearing them apart.
The security guards who allowed me to dance against the stage, now wedged between me and my obsession.

I said, “What do I have to do to get back there? I really need to meet them.”

Security Guard, “Sorry, they told me no one can go back there.”

Me, “DON’T THEY KNOW WHO I AM!?”

The security guards chuckled a little.

Me, “Seriously, I will do anything to get back there. ANYTHING.”

A guy behind me said, “She will do anything.”

The Security Guard slowly shook his head as if to toss this around for a second.

Then I said, “I saw Axl Rose! They let me back to see him.”

They chuckled again.

Defeated, I shrunk a little and said, “Well, do you think they saw me, at least?”

Security Guard, “I am pretty sure everyone saw you. That’s why I asked to work this side.”

I put my hands on the barrier and jumped up and down, screaming Beatle-Mania again.

Someone handed me a ripped play list as a consolation prize. This crowd was generous with me.

I turned and pouted towards CeCe and her boyfriend, who were calmly waiting for me to run myself down. Another Security Guard approached and said, "The show is over, the doors are that way."

CeCe said, "No, the Doors are that way." She pointed towards the fallen curtain.

I leaned forward and said, "If the doors of perception were cleansed, everything would appear to man as it truly is . . . infinite."

He smiled politely and once again, motioned to the doors.  I growled.


I left and walked out into the cool night air. Abe nowhere to be found. CeCe and I said our goodbyes and I headed back to my car to chain smoke my frustration away.

Once again, I needed more.

I called Abe, and there was no answer.

I was hot and tipsy (people bought me drinks) and I needed to collapse.

First, I thought about heading back to Frank’s where the dogs were, then I resolved to just go to Abe’s since it was only 10 minutes away. I pulled in and somehow saw him.

Me, “What the fuck?”

Abe, “They locked the downstairs so I couldn’t go back down. Good show though.”

That was a good reason.

I said, “Ok, I am coming down hard from this.”

So he led me back into his apartment, and his roommate was still up. I was panting and groaning for more music. It was a little over the top.

Abe put his hand on my back and pushed me passed his roommate, “We are going through a little Doors withdrawal.”

Abe and I showered to get the sweat off. I couldn’t stay in one spot for very long, so dried off, pacing back and forth in his room.

Abe, “Are you upset because Jim Morrison is dead? Thats what this is really about isn’t it?”

Me, “Of course I am upset he is dead. And the same strain of heroin killed Janis. NO ONE CARES!”



Abe downloaded all the Doors albums to his ipod and plugged in speakers so I could listen to it.

Moonlight Drive
People Are Strange
My Eyes Have Seen You

Then, “I Can’t See Your Face in my Mind” came on. A little B-side favorite of mine.

I got on my knees at the side of the bed and put my head between the speakers, then rubbed them over both my ears.

Insanity's horse
Adorns the sky
Can't seem to find the right lie
Carnival dogs
Consume the lines
Can't see your face in my mind

Abe, “You need to take a walk and blow off whatever this is.”

I whined, “I need the music.”



Abe put it in a bag and we walked with the music as I skipped and complained about not being backstage.
I was manic and running out of cigarettes.

Abe, “Baby, its almost 3am. I have to go to sleep. What is going on with you?”

Me, “THIS IS my mental illness. Don’t you get it? This is my disease. Once I start with this music, I can’t stop.”

Abe, “Calm down.”

Me, “I am trying. I am annoyed by myself too. My brain won’t stop.”

We walked a bit more in the night, as his little ipod echoed the dead voice of someone who could never satisfy me.

Abe, “What can I do to get you to stop?”

Me, “Nothing. Nothing would satisfy me. Not if they played longer. Not if it was the real Doors concert. It all ends and my mind just keeps going.”

We were out of pot and there was nothing to calm me down. *Note to Self: Bring Valium next Doors concert
Around 4am, I stopped. My breath slowed. The music stopped.

At 6am, I had to be up for a morning show call. I felt like shit. Not to mention, I had to work later in the day at Doggie Daycare.

Abe texted me later that day: “My roommate says U were coked up last night? U did act like you were coming down. Did Frank give you coke?”

Me: “No. I had 4 beers and love the Doors. That’s all.”

“If I had coke, I would have shared some before fucking you. I thought you knew me better.”

Abe: “I said to him U weren’t and would have told me. But where did U get all that energy.”

Me: “I am crazy. I thought you knew.”

Abe: “Last night was a heavy dose of hyper something from U.”

Me: “I have a chemical imbalance.”

Abe: “Tell yr brain to fix it.”

Me: “I have come a long way. I used to be manic like that 70% of the time when I was 16-17. Its not so bad every once in a while for something I love so much.”

Abe: “But how did U talk to people acting strange like that? Its like U could do anything all of a sudden like U arent in control. Yr hot too.”

Me: “I was painfully shy and only close to a few people who thought I was bi-polar. Various theories about what medication to put me on and reactions to alcohol. I was just hyped up and bizarre. I forced myself to calm down, exercise, smoked weed and my brain chemicals balanced more.

I still have bouts of mania and depression, but only few and far between. Pot, sleep and exercise make all the difference. And escaping adolescence.

I do love the Doors WAY too much.”



Abe: “I believe U and cant believe it. :)”

I crawled into work again with sore hamstrings, but the only thing I could think about was, “What’s my next concert?”