Whats so funny about Peace, Love and Getting Cut in Half by a Stage?

I love live music. Blame it on my mother - every show that came to Baton Rouge during my early developmental years you could find my mom with 2 small children on the front row. I will never forget the Rita Coolidge/Kris Kristofferson show where Kris gave my mom his empty Jim Beam bottle as a keepsake. (We later made a RonCo root beer candle from that bottle) Perhaps it was my father's influence, despite all of his BIG political accomplishments he was most proud of playing the Captain on the HMS Pinafore. Many a day I would drive my dad around (most of the time with him seated in the backseat a la Miss Daisy) singing harmony with him to Andy Griffith songs.

As a teenager, one of the saving graces of my move to Mississippi was going to the barn to listen to "Anvil" play. Brian Huddell, Ronnie Schmidtling and Jimmy Burril were the shit. A lot of people went out to the barn to engage in unadulterated party, but me (who loves to party) I went for the music. The sounds of Joe Jackson and Elvis Costello played by those 3 talented members of "Anvil" were some of the highlights of the 80s for me. Following the untimely HS graduation of the "Anvil" crew came Richie Gardner with his band "Secret Beat" following the trail blazed by the "Anvil" Boys. (How I wish I still had the lyrics to Winnebago Woman written by Richie for me) The Concert Choir Hall gained new life with “Secret Beat” licking their axes to our favorite New Wave Songs.

Following High School, I decided to go back to Louisiana for college. While LSU had a lot to offer in the way of getting your drunk on, I missed the warm hazy nights filled with live guitar riffs, singers romancing their mics and drummers spewing sweat all over drum kits and amplifiers. I needed my live music and knew it was just down the road in The City that Care Forgot. Upon transferring to college in New Orleans, I immediately secured a carriage house within walking distance of Tipatina’s. On average 5 out of 7 nights the bronze bust of Professor Longhair would greet me as I walked into Tips for my live music fix. I fried chicken for Dwight Yokum after his last set, second-lined with GWAR and out-shot the Big Elvis from Dread Zepplin. Countless nights I went home with my ears ringing and my heart still pumping from the thrill of listening to the band.

Uptown New Orleans was alive with music and I was ready to swim in the sounds of everything from "Bow Wow Wow" to "The Zion Harmonizers". Protopunk was big on the music scene and the "New York Dolls" were the Godfathers of this edgy sound. "The Dolls" were playing at the Maple Leaf uptown and I was first in line to get in the door. The crowd looked like the extras from Bladerunner and when the music started a big pit was formed in the middle of the floor (notice I did not call it a mosh pit – it was just a big scary pit filled with pseudo vampires and real-life taxidermists) There was little me straining to get closer to "The Dolls", when the peripheral vacuum of the pit sucked me in. Now, I am about 5’2” on a tall day so the middle of the pit is the last place a small gal wants to find herself trapped in. Within the bowels of the pit, I was shoved, bounced, passed, grabbed, rubbed and dos-e-doed to the very sharp edge of the stage where David Johansen was belting out “Personality Crisis”. Well, couldn’t he see I was having a major crisis of my own! As the pit pulsated to the song, big punk dudes and even bigger punk chicks were pushing me closer and closer to the stage until the edge of the stage became one with my rib cage.

Despite the searing guitar playing I could still hear my ribs crunching into little pieces one by one. The pain was intense so I begin to beat on the floor of the stage and Johansen’s shoes, yelling to David “Help me, help me, Save Me, save me.” I just knew that I was going to be a victim of pit vivisection. As I was frantically trying to get Johansen to save me, he leaned down to cheek to cheek with me, strummed his guitar in my face, gave me a big misty smile and announced to the crowd. “Give it up THIS is our biggest fan!” The crowd loved me but I was too busy blacking out to care.

After that, things were a bit hazy, as my lungs had both collapsed due to the impact of the stage slamming against them. Some big man with an Aqua colored Mohawk (I believe he was either a Turtle Farmer from Houma or had recently been kicked out of Tulane Med School for excessive recreational drug use) picked me up over his head and passed me out of the pit. It took a lot of ace bandages and painkillers to get over that show but man oh man no one can rock like Johnny Thunders. (Except for the great Brian H. and Richie G. and Craig D.)

Many shows have followed along with many accidents and incidents and significant hearing loss. My next post will cover my personal odyssey to see the "Ramones" and my false press credentials used to meet Better Than Ezra. And remember as we walk through this wicked world searching for light in the darkness of insanity, not all hope is lost it can be still be found at the edge of a stage, in a pit or sitting in the gospel tent. What's so funny about Peace, Love and Live Music?

It's a neighborly day in this beautywood. Wood you be my neighbor?

Having a giant "FREAKS WELCOME" tattoo on my forehead has guaranteed that I will meet (and sometimes marry) all of the sociopaths, recently released mental institution patients, social abortions and garden variety freak-a-zoids in a 100 mile radius. Of course this puts a huge burden on my social life because each special personality has their own unique needs such as hourly meds, rides to the electroshock clinic or just a friend to drool on who will listen without casting stones. Living in New Orleans, which happens to be a Freak Mecca (which is the reason the 3 wise voices in my head told me to follow yon star with my camel caravan to the Garden District) brought many blithe spirits into my life and some even into my home. There was the Tourret's Syndrome Skinny Santa (a good information tidbit to store away if one ever parties with a turret's santa: mixing tourret's meds and alcohol will cause severe lockjaw), the bisexual bipolar artist in angst known only as Mamie (I spent over 12 hours with her at Big Charity hospital as she was treated for lockjaw) and the coffee swilling, cigarette rolling trust fund baby who had a touch of Reduplicative Paramnesia (we could fritter away the days going between the real New Orleans and his New Orleans that was located in his butler's pantry) After finishing college I knew I was due a change - I needed to expand my social circle to include the sane yet still interesting citizens of the Big Easy.

My meeting Andrew Wood was like having a succulent whiff of Jean-Louis Fargeon scented demimonde accouter enter my life. We met working at Bauerlein a slick glossy advertising agency during the reign of 30something on network TV. The ad agency was just bursting at the seams with 30something wannabes and me. These co-workers were not the lively creative psyches that I was hoping to attract. These were people trying to mimic their real life after a TV show I had never even viewed. As a result of my disillusion, I spent a lot of time holed up in my windowless "office"* with Scotchguard spray mount as my only companion. Then on one fabulous day Mr. Wood was my office neighbor.

Being an amateur stalker at heart, I watched Andrew Wood closely. How I admired his deftly mischievous rapport with the other creatives, his seamless use of rubber cement and above all his intellectual artistic talent. How could I, a homespun redneck from the shores of small town Mississippi ever hope to be friends with such a wonderful creature? We finally met when Andrew took pity on me and told me I was indulging in dangerous spray adhesive practices. He could sense I needed a mentor and a friend who was not criminally ill. That day amongst the sticky glue molecules and toxic fumes wafting through my "office" forever changed my artistic soul.

Walking into Andrew's life is a bit like finding yourself in Mr. Rogers make-believe land. His friends included a midget sophisticate, the radical fairies and a bevy of intellects and designers. His home off the street car line on Carondelet Street was a mystical outpost filled with objects d'art, flea market funk and the aroma of creative freedom. The madcap fun was non-stop whether we were craving an Elvis bust from spam or mailing bologna to pen pals in Brazil and Eartha Kitty was always on paw to act as a feline muse along with our cocktails du jour. Everyone at Chez Wood was having a neighborly day in the beautywood.

Though we have both moved on from our New Orleans days, I still relish the time that I get to spend with Andrew. He has shared with me the Atlanta that is soulful and crusty, who else but Mr. Wood would take me to the Martin Luther Shrine District Sweet Auburn Fest to sip loaded daiquiris bought from a street vendors while we watched young African American girls dance Afro-centric routines followed by a visit to Margret Mitchell's grave site. He always has the time to stop and shoot a round of goofy golf or eat a rainbow snow cone. It's always a beautiful day in his neighborhood. Oh, Wood you be my neighbor....


I have always wanted to have a neighbor just like you,
I've always wanted to live in a neighborhood with you.

So let's make the most of this beautiful day,
Since we're together, we might as well say,
Would you be mine?
Could you be mine?
Won't you be my neighbor?

Won't you please,
Won't you please,
Please won't you be my neighbor?



* my "office" was also the maintenance closet housing mops, sweepers and cleaning chemicals

Free to a Good Home - One Gently Used Uterus

I am starting a movement to have removable body parts - I'm sure there are a lot of us who have some thing hanging around that we really don't need anymore. It could be a set of old earlobes that at one time looked really cutting edge wicked with a hole the size of Denali Park in them thanks to the cool discs the size of bone china tea saucers you kept adding to each lobe.

Perhaps you have a slightly aged flabby pec that was tattooed when it was a firm 20 something muscle but now your Wilmaforever tattoo is reading more like Wilmaforeverandeverandever. At the time it was a body part that seemed to be of some use whether it was akin to the plumage of the polygynous birds of paradise used to attract mates or a part that has been hanging around since birth but has worn out it's welcome on your over-taxed aging body.

Personally, the first thing I would detach and give away would be my uterus. It has served my purpose and I am sure there is a nice family out there who has the time and energy to give it the care it deserves. Or I would be glad to make a trade, I would be happy to have a nice penis. At this point in my life I have much more use for my own personal penis without a male body attached to it. Oh the joy of my penis getting excited when I came home each day, jumping up to meet me and giving me unconditional satisfaction and love. The freedom of being able to get paid what my male counterparts earn just by bringing my penis to work with me each day. And joy of all joys, I would jump the first ice cutter with my penis in hand (wrapped in thinsulate of course to ensure it's comfort) to sail to the arctic circle where I would spend countless days writing my name in the snow. I know my penis would be missed by his previous owner but he would be in a good hands with me and if it didn't work out for my little penis friend I can send him to a penis rescue society that would ensure placement in a good nurturing home.

I have been researching e-bay and craig's list for other uterus sellers but so far no retailers have been located. I think a gently used on-line uterus boutique is way overdue! There are so many uses for a uterus still in good condition - you can use it as a coin purse and once a month it will expand into a handy overnight bag. It makes a very fashionable party hat or cutting edge light shade - play your cards right and you may be able to utilize one uterus in so many crafty ways. I would recommend pulling out the ole bedazzler and giving it your own special personal flare.

Watch your local paper for my new business explosion. Uterus R Us - coming soon - all uteri are accepted and if yours has special talent we will highlight it with the spotlight profile. We accept cash, paypal, money orders and of course I will barter for a good slightly used penis - yeah, like there is such a thing as a gently used penis!!!!

Re-post from May 17, 2007 - Oh how I miss my Baby!

Thursday, May 17, 2007

Thirteen Thursday #1

Here is my first attempt at 13 Thursday....

13 Things That I Love About My Daughter

1. The stork bite on the back of her neck that she has had since birth. I love the way her blond baby hair still curls around that small red "bite" reminding me of how she was carried into my life on the wings of God
2. The perfect little fingernails on her ten fingers - now that she is a big 5 year old girl her nails are polished a variety of lacquers
3. Her beautiful blue peepers - The storm of emotion that can pass through them and become sunshine in mere moments
4. The perfect bow of her lips that curl into an easy smile
5. Her long beautiful strong legs that run, jump and dance through each day and look so great in go-go boots!
   
6. The way she purrs when she snuggles with me like a sweet little kitten
   
7. Her deep compassion for the sick and needy of the world
8. The unwavering faith that she has in God
9. She tells me "actually, Mommy" with so much confidence
10. The soft pads of her palms when she enfolds her hand within mine
11. The thirst she has for science and geography - she wants to travel the world!
12. Her ability to always stop and smell the roses
    
13. When she says "Mommy, I love you" I know that I have reached a utopia in my heart - how I love my precious girl

I wish that each of you will find a love as pure as this in your life. She is my joy and the breath of life that God has blessed me with...


PEACE and Greens

Putting the Steel in Magnolias

I have had the immensely great fortune to reunite this past year with several of my very best friends from high school. We were the girls of the early 80s - defined by our big hair, heavy black eyeliner and penchant for clothing adorned with bows, alligators and polo riders. The geography of our existence was contained within a man-made beach to our south, the Shy Anne social club to our east, Saint Stanislaus Boys school to our west and some pretty scary rednecks to our north. Compared to the world today our world was very small and simple. As idyllic as our small town life would seem to be we were all itchin' to keep cruising past the Jeff Davis strip and on into the big sophisticated world we were certain lay beyond our little high school boundaries.

Listening to my girlfriends talk about themselves in High School makes me wonder if my perception of those days was clouded by a sticky web of Aquanet and waterproof Maybelline eyeliner. One of my favorite bloggers is one of these friends and in many of her posts she writes about how she was unpopular in high school. Funny, how I remember her as being very well-liked, pretty, funny, talented, and quite frankly she hung out with me so she must have been popular. (at least she was popular with me) Another friend tells her teenage daughters how unattractive and nerdy she was in high school while what I remember is a tall beautiful girl with a perfect smile, amazing alto voice and wicked sense of humor. The homecoming queen was also in our high school girlfriend club, she was considered the most popular and beautiful girl in town. Just a few weeks ago I found myself telling her that I wished she was more self confident.

I am not even sure what defined popular in 1983 all I know is that my best friends were the girls who turned heads from the petite little mormon spitfire to the tall cool drink of smokey sound. I was always the comic relief for these beautiful flowers. The loud chunky thighed girl who brought some earthiness to the beauty surrounding me. I am not bitter about being the dirt, because thanks to them I was able to meet some cute band guys and get a lot of free drinks.

My beautiful friends have grown into beautiful women that I admire greatly for the lives they lead. The road has held some giant switchbacks and steep drops for each of them since we toasted our last bottle of pink champale in the Piggly Wiggly parking lot. Each one has faced her share of heartache and disappointment with a survivor's mentality. Where are the girls of 83 nearly 30 years later. The tall cool drink is one of the most fantastic mothers I have ever met, she has organized countless school and community fundraisers. She was recognized by her home state as volunteer of the year and walked step for step with her critically ill son until he regained his health. The tiny spitfire walked through fire to get her degree and has a beautiful talent with the written word and is a bastion of fashion. The homecoming queen has single handedly raised two amazing daughters and gutted homes for Katrina victims all while keeping the twinkle shining in her beautiful blue eyes. The pretty little beach sprite left the country and now fills the world with beautiful ukulele music and wonderful designs. The footprints left by each of these women reflect hope, love, friendship and has made my world and I believe the world in general a better and more beautiful place to live.

In general I don't write when I am sporting my rose colored glasses, I prefer the hard light from my cheaters but I watched Steel Magnolias and realized those fictional movie characters had nothin' on the real magnolias that I have the honor of calling friends. Our geographical boundaries have grown and our hair has lost alot of volume but our journeys have brought all of our lives together again and I rejoice. My pink champale is chilled - here's to you magnolias of mississippi may your steel petals continue to shine.