Bad Music and Good Memories

Jay and Peaches picked us up for the REO Speedwagon concert in Jay’s parents' Chevy something or other.  Marilyn begged me to go along, knowing full well that I hated REO Speedwagon with every Grateful Dead loving bone in my body.  I knew this was going to be torture but she and I were best friends and she was hoping Peaches and I would hit it off so we could all double-date in the future. His passion for REO Speedwagon already put him at a HUGE disadvantage for that scenario. It also didn't help that he preferred polo shirts and acid washed jeans to concert t-shirts and regular old blue jeans. My high school dream date played love songs on guitar, read books by Kurt Vonnegut and preferred biking to football. As I slipped into the backseat with Peaches, I knew it was going to be a very, very long night.

       Jay was captain of the football, baseball and wrestling teams at the boy’s boarding school down the road from where we lived. Although he boarded at the school, he was from Athol (actual name of a town) and was attending Deerfield Academy on a scholarship and unlike most of the other boys there, he was not a Mayflower descendant. He adored Marilyn and followed her around like a gorilla-sized puppy.

Peaches (what the hell was his real name anyway?) was way more interested in drinking the whiskey he sneaked into the Springfield Civic Center than trying to strike up any conversation with me. He and Jay danced and sang along to every song, pumping their triumphant fists into the air. By the end of the night, Peaches and Marilyn had polished off the whiskey and Jay and I helped them out to the car.

Interstate 91 follows the Connecticut River from New Haven, Connecticut through western Massachusetts, into Vermont and New Hampshire and continues all the way to the Canadian border. Drunk Peaches had sprawled out across the backseat so I squeezed into the front next to Marilyn and leaned my head against the passenger side window for the 30 minute drive back to South Deerfield. Peaches let out an occasional mumble or inebriated exclamation about how awesome the concert was from the back. The dark car filled with Marilyn and Peaches’ whiskey infused sweat as we made our way out of the crowded parking garage.

“And I'm gonna keep on lovin youuuuuuu

Cause it's the only thing I wanna doooooooo

I don't wanna sleep

I just wanna keep on lovin youuuuuu!”

We had just passed by the new Ingleside Mall in Holyoke when Marilyn leaned over to open my window a little more and in the span of seconds my brand new purple jumpsuit felt warm and wet -her whiskey scented dinner suddenly covered my lap.

        “I feel much better now.” She calmly reported.

I don’t remember if I screamed or jumped up in my seat but we did pull off the highway and I tried to scrape the goop off my pants with the scraps of paper we found in Jay’s car. Marilyn wiped a scant stream of barfy spittle that ran along her face into her golden mane of hair. She was beautiful even with barf on her face.

      I walked Marilyn into her dark, wood paneled house past her sleeping parents and got her settled into her room before walking across the cornfield to my house. I decided it was more prudent to go in from my garage so I could slip into the laundry room and rinse off my barf soaked clothes before anyone could lecture me.

Our friendship endured the barf test as well as many other Marilyn inspired antics. She was fearless and constantly dared me out of my introvert comfort zone.  Although we had only become friends the summer after my sophomore year in high school, it was as if we had been best friends our whole childhood.

Marilyn was so eager to leave our small town that she graduated a year early with my class in 1981. She gaily skipped off to RISD where she studied painting and glass blowing.

After high school we rarely saw each other as she was determined never to return to South Deerfield and I shared her sentiment. She spent one summer on Cape Cod working in a tourist shop and then left the East Coast entirely after her sophomore year to work in the glassblowing community in Seattle. She visited me with her boyfriend Preston Singletary during the summer of 1984 when I worked in Boston and again in 1985 when I lived in San Francisco. Once she married Australian artist Andrew Antoniou around 1990 the Pacific Ocean (and lack of money) kept us further apart. I can’t remember precisely the last time we saw each other but I believe it was in 1991 when I was living in Oakland and she and Andrew came to visit the Bay Area. After I moved to the Midwest, time and distance created a bigger gap in our communication, not to mention the three children I was busy attending to daily but we continued to write long letters a few times a year.  When email finally became the preferred method of communicating we felt even closer. Early in 2009, I tried to convince her to join this new thing called Facebook so we could peer into each other’s lives more easily. One of her last emails to me apologized for not figuring out Facebook but that she was battling ovarian cancer and wanted to focus on healing. We reminisced about our epic cooking sessions at her house when were teenagers creating entire gourmet meals to be enjoyed only by the two of us using her family’s fine china at their big dining room table, all the while serenaded by Heart or Iggy Pop from the stereo in their den.

My children never got to meet my best friend but they have heard all of the stories. I always credit her with rescuing me from teenage angst and keeping me sane. She dragged me out of my shyness and forced me to confront those fears and for that I am grateful. 

Marilyn left this world on November 11, 2009.

Being 13 Again!

     Worried about feeling old? Guess what?  If you have not already gone through menopause, then you have something to look forward to! You may be honored with the experience of living out those darkest days of adolescence all over again. This bonus adolescence is extra special because it is enhanced by the addition of wrinkles, gray hair, stretch marks, forgetfulness and some belly fat that just will not go away no matter how much you exercise. Doesn’t that sound like so much fun?  You get to be 13 all over again! You thought you were missing your youth and then it comes back to visit you. Women are so lucky. Forget about the whole  business of  those child bearing years coming to an end, you get to be sad and happy and sad and happy all in the span of 10 minutes. This bonus adolescence might even last longer than your first one if you are extremely fortunate. You can be 13 again and again for like 5 years. Getting old is so much fun! 

     Remember when you were in 7^th grade math class and you thought you could get your period at any minute and since you were wearing tight white pants and the teacher didn’t let students leave to use the bathroom, you would most likely start gushing blood all over the place? Menopause is just like that only maybe without the watermelon lip smacker in your back pocket.  Those final menstruation years are full of surprise appearances. That aging uterus is having its own fire sale in there and everything must GO, GO, GO! 

      Were you missing that time when you were going through puberty and suddenly  all of your clothes didn't fit one day because overnight some kind of freakish  internal mechanism expanded your hips and chest? Your new menopause belly and flappy arms were created by that same perverse internal mechanism all these years later. Yay!

     Maybe we will feel better if we sing "How Lovely to be a Woman" from  "Bye Bye Birdie" over and over until this phase passes. Or better yet, let's all form an old lady band and sing some Ramones' tunes. 

“Home is where you wear your hat.”

-Lord John Whorfin / Dr. Emilio Lizardo from

The Adventures of Buckaroo Banzai Across the 8th Dimension

I drove my eldest child to the Oakland airport a couple of weeks ago, past the city where she was born, past the exit I used to take back to my Oakland apartment when I returned late at night from trips to Los Angeles, Stockton or Baja, California in the late 80’s with the man who is now my husband. Past the exit I felt the clutch slip on my first car but didn’t know that’s what was happening and thought I was going to die a fiery death.

On this trip to the airport, my eldest and youngest child and I drove past the Oakland Coliseum, which might be called the Oracle Arena because every big arena seems to be named after a business now. This is the same venue where I saw the Grateful Dead and Bob Dylan in 1987 and later in 1989 where I viewed the Boston Red Sox play the Oakland A’s and I could not let go of my ingrained childhood loyalty to the Red Sox. The Red Sox lost but the series continued when the A’s faced the San Francisco Giants in the “Battle of the Bay.” There was a little natural disaster called the Loma Prieta earthquake in the middle of all of this rivalry and once all the dust settled and baseball could resume the remaining games were all held at the Oakland Coliseum.

This Oakland airport is the same place I sat crying into a payphone when “People’s Express” cancelled my flight to Massachusetts in June of 1985. It’s there where I learned about credit cards, business bankruptcy and reading the fine print.

After my eldest daughter effortlessly waved goodbye and disappeared into the airport last month, my youngest child and I drove past the exit that once had a view of giant homes and 1970’s era dark brown cedar shake apartment buildings which appeared to hang precariously onto the hillside over the Walnut Creek tunnel until they were consumed by the Oakland Hills fire in late 1991 when I was 7 months pregnant.

I almost never think about the Loma Prieta Earthquake or the Oakland hills fire from my Minnesota home. I also never have these visceral memories of California while driving around the streets of St Paul where I am more likely to remember the winter my second child was born and I barely left the house because it was so cold and icy outside.

All of these stream of consciousness memories flood my brain on this one 25 minute trip to the Oakland airport with my oldest and youngest child in the car with me. The oldest, who I carried in a front baby pack, bundled under my oversized vintage overcoat when she was colicky for her first 8 weeks of life. She and I walked up and down College Avenue in Oakland where her inconsolable wails were drowned out by the buses, cars and BART trains. We walked every night to spare the neighbors in our small apartment building the incessant crying.

I have lived in Minnesota for 20 years and in the same house for 14. That is the longest I have ever lived in one house or even in one state for my entire 51 years. Two of my three children were born in Minnesota and my youngest has only ever lived in one house, except for the two semesters we spent in California for my husband’s sabbatical in 2001 and now in 2015. I consider myself fortunate to have called so many places home because each time I visit one of those homes I see some street sign or shop or hillside that draws out a memory from my aging brain that I forgot was in there.

We are not Men

Devo was my gateway drug for exploring new music in 1979. The first time I saw them on Saturday Night Live, I thought they were part of some kind of alien invasion or maybe accomplices in another Andy Kaufman bit. Were they going to whip off their goggles and start reading The Great Gatsby? It was late at night of course and I was watching t.v alone  in the dark on the lower level of our modern raised ranch style house on the edge of a Western Massachusetts cornfield. Their emotionless facial expressions and spastic dancing style caught me off guard before I embraced their quirky genius. A hop, skip and a jump later I bought a couple of Clash albums and embraced the modern world.

 http://s131.photobucket.com/user/jwdoom/media/Satisfactionipod.mp4.html

Moms Who Rock

 

         Middle age dad bands are a thing. In my small circle of friends I can list off 5 dads who are in a band just for fun and an occasional gig at a local dive bar. The same cannot be said of my mom friends. Most are too busy with work, carpools, volunteer commitments and the occasional book club or night out to make time to hang out and jam. The “to do” list is infinitely long most days and the tasks just rollover to the next.

           A few years ago I really wanted to start a band with my friends but no one had any time to spare and there was a severe shortage of instrument players. Most of my friends were willing to be back up singers and many could play the piano or flute but we really lacked killer guitar players. I took about 3 guitar lessons in 5^th grade and then just taught myself the rest-which means I don’t actually know how to play more than a few songs by Joni Mitchell, The Beatles or Neil Young. I must have left my guitar at home after my first year of college and it disappeared at some point- possibly sold at a yard sale when my family moved. The passing of time and lack of lessons has not improved my guitar playing skills thus making it hard to actually start a band in the first place. Factor in the time commitment and  the lack of  willing participants, the mom band “Whack ol’ Ladies” never got off the ground.   

    I remember hearing about a musical from the 80's called  “Angry Housewives” from one of my Seattle friends when I was a senior in college. With a sparkle in her eyes she recounted her favorite song from the show “Eat your F*ckin Cornflakes.” I loved that show without ever seeing it. When I was 21, I couldn’t fathom a time when I was married with kids and pets and the idea that someone could write something so irreverent about motherhood was exhilarating and made me less queasy about growing up.  I wanted to be that band of moms singing about corn flakes and carpools with the occasional cover of a Clash or X song thrown in.  

     Enter plan B- find an existing band or group of singers and beg to join. Choirs are big in the Midwest- Gay Men’s Chorus, One Voice Mixed Choir, Kantorei and  Twin Cities Community Gospel Choir are only a few. I didn't want to sing religious music and really just wanted to sing songs by The Clash and X with a bunch of women who appreciated the irony. Finally I asked the right person who had a friend in Prairie Fire Lady Choir. At the first rehearsal we practiced a mash up of Mr. Sandman (The Chordettes) and Enter Sandman (Metallica). It was then that I knew I found my people. We have an eclectic repertoire: Fiona Apple, George Michael, Prince, Tom Waits, Buddy Holly, The Cookies and more. We range in age and musical experience and many are not moms at all but we all come together and escape through singing. Because I often think in song lyrics, the Talking Heads' song “Life During Wartime”comes to mind every time  we practice “we dress like students, we dress like housewives....”

In Which I Go to a Concert Alone for the First Time Since I was 20.

  

     The last time I went to a concert alone, I rode my bike through the rolling hills of the Connecticut River Valley in Western Massachusetts to a small church where I saw of all things a hardcore punk concert. I honestly can't even remember who was playing-Minutemen? Suicidal Tendencies? I was one of maybe two women there and for sure the only person on a janky old 10 speed.

     I snapped up a ticket months ago to see James Blake, a young British musician with the most hauntingly beautiful voice. I had his first album on constant repeat when I was traveling recently and his soothing voice and electronic sound made a perfect backdrop to the insanity of airline travel. 

      At one point three friends were going to be at the show but over the course of a few weeks each one had family commitments that prevented them from attending so I asked one of my young free spirited friends at the last minute. After a series of comical mishaps of modern communication, I ended up getting dropped off since my friend thought I had bought his ticket and I thought he was buying his own. This happens more often than one would think but there I was.

     Although I had run into five people I knew at the last show at First Avenue, it was clear from the youthful crowd that I was not going to know anyone this time. I did what any modern mom would do in this situation - pulled out my phone and starting messaging my daughter time zones away, wishing she could enjoy James Blake with me and we could take in the scene together. I lamented my solitary predicament and she reminded me that her music loving friend Henry went to lots of shows alone before he died unexpectedly last month so I could soldier on alone. Mother-daughter pep talks are wonderful no matter what the medium or time of night.

     The concert began with a body-thumping baseline that vibrated every single aging cell in my body. My nose was tickling and my heart was trying to escape through my throat. I had  to retreat to higher ground with as much dignity as possible. There was however a lot of canoodling in the old lady balcony that night, which should not have surprised me  given James Blake's  sultry voice. However when the lanky blonde next to me decided this was the perfect time to show her male friend just how much she was into him, I had to find another vantage point.  These awkward public displays of passion are the kind of concert predicaments that are way more fun to laugh about with a friend or daughter by your side.

     

not sleazy at all

 Back in the 80’s when I went out dancing in NY and SF or went to hear live music I was constantly surrounded by lust so I should not have been surprised given the age group of my fellow James Blake fans- I had just forgotten about that part of the music scene. Life is full of surprises no matter what the decade.
     Love and Peace.

The Universe is Stupid and Other Immature Thoughts From a Mature Woman

 

         During college my negative view of life, love and the world around me was fueled by the music I listened to. The Dead Kennedy’s, The Clash, Black Flag, X, Sex Pistols, Minutemen, The Germs and The Buzzcocks provided the soundtrack to my nihilistic belief that there was no god, the world was a dangerous place and we wander around in sadness until we die. Did I mention I was a philosophy major? The universe appeared vast and meaningless and Ronald Reagan was president.

         The nineties rolled around and I had my first of three children. Suddenly the universe didn’t seem so bleak after all. Life was brimming with possibilities. Those screams were going to turn into songs. Scaling the living room bookshelves turned into a love of hiking. I was too busy changing diapers to worry about the future and too sleep deprived to care. The Sex Pistols sounded so angry and I was trying to keep it quiet at my house so the baby would take a nap and I could rest.

         With not enough time to listen to college radio I lost touch with new music in the nineties. Whatever I did end up buying came as a CD but I still lugged my whole record collection around  each time I moved because I was sure I could never part with all that vinyl. When I was pregnant with my third child and my oldest was 7 and youngest was 3, I thought it would be a good idea to get rid of any albums I had with inappropriate or curse laden lyrics.  I didn’t want my 2 girls to inadvertently put on P.I.L or The Germs. We listened to Jonathan Richman, David Bowie, Talking Heads, Arlo and Woody Guthrie and lullabies from around the world when they were sick, anxious, bored or sleepy.

         Now my youngest is 13 and lists The Ramones and the Clash as his favorite bands and has learned the bass lines for many of their songs. Macklemore’s Thrift Shop is on everyone’s Ipod (f-bombs and all) and we even go to concerts together. My oldest just turned 21 so  now she can have a beer the next time we see Father John Misty together. Musical F-bombs are the least of my worries.

         In the last four months two incredible young people were suddenly yanked away from my circle of friends: a beautiful and wise 20 year old master debater and future policy maker and a sweet and kind 21 year old guitar playing economics major.  Their deaths were sudden and with proper and prompt medical care might have been avoided but no one can know for sure. I can't fathom a universe that allows this to happen. The only coherent thought I have come up with this week is that the universe is stupid. These two young adults had so much to give the world through their kindness and talents.  Don’t even get me started on the Newton, CT school shooting. 

         I’m angry at the stupid universe and I am still not sure about the existence of God  but I am not reaching for the Sex Pistols or the Germs today. Today’s sadness soundtrack is full of James Blake, Field Report, Jeremy Messersmith, Peggy Lee and a dash of Phantom Vibration.