That was a dopey post. It’s gone now.
And on it goes… January 16, 2017
It was 35 years in the making. Seriously. Back in the early 80s, we flirted shamelessly. T saw what was going on. He must have known. There was that night in the production studio, after we’d finished our work. I was in the chair, absolutely frozen with desire and not a clue what to do with it. T left the room. D leaned over and kissed me. T caught us – oh jeez, D was married.
I had never been kissed like that, ever. His mouth was soft and insistent. He sat back and looked me square in the face. I have never forgotten it.
So, here we are, in an “artisinal” bar in what used to be a horrible no man’s land on the Boston waterfront. He’s divorced, I’m restless. At one point, I said we had HAD chemistry. He insisted it was still there.
We never even discussed “it”.
We talked about the merits of Honda vs Toyota. We talked about our jobs. We talked about the bands we loved and the ones we had discarded along the way. We held hands. He slipped into the elevator with me and we kept talking. Five flights up. We walked into my room as if we had been doing this for years. Hey, wait a minute…
We talked until we stopped. He slid his warm hands under my shirt and leaned his mouth against my neck. There is that exquisite moment of surrender – when you can’t really breathe and the blood careens through your veins in an approximation of fight or flight but really all you want to feel is his weight on top of you, his fingers in you and his mouth – well, anywhere it wants to be. And you want to reciprocate.
George Michael December 27, 2016
Father Figure. Any girl who notes this one has issues, right? Not necessarily. I get this song on a molecular level and I have no daddy issues, I assure you.
“…Just for one moment, to be warm and naked, at my side…”
There’s the crux, the true core of this song. Well, in one woman’s opinion…
and love is love is love is love is love is love is love is love… November 22, 2016
I think I’m in love. I’m in love. This is love.
She says – Fuck. I have no idea what adult love is. He fell in love with a woman who had 3 marriages behind her – and his answer to the question “what did she bring to the table?” was “she was kind” . Well, she wasn’t kind to me. She wasn’t kind to our kids. She wasn’t kind to her husband….so how kind could she really have been? She blasted through three marriages. How kind could that have been?
But the knife cuts both ways. This one is smart and funny and deeply sexy. And he loves her. The one before him, the one for whom she would have sent her marriage out to sea in a viking funeral had he asked, has reappeared. She hurls herself against a huge canvas of “what if ” and is cast out to sea on a raft with a sail of faith. And faith is bullshit. Faith is weak.
She wants to believe that you can acknowledge the construction. Acknowledge the bricks laid, the foundation built, the house that has withstood many storms. Acknowledge that this effort should be worth something. That they should reward each other with each other.
She wants the perks that, by rights, should be hers. That she should be loved. And desired. And craved. And, occasionally, ravished.
And this is denied her. And this makes her enormously sad.
Not with a bang, but a whimper November 6, 2016
Three years after the nuclear blast, she sat on the sofa facing him.
Yes, I love you, he said. But I don’t think I can sleep with you anymore.
The gust of wind no one else could feel blew her back and made her eyes sting.
She half-expected that part, but the slice of her heart that still thought he was the best thing ever was suddenly, excruciatingly flash frozen. That part shrieked when the cold hit.
She had owned her part in the schism that eventually divided them, which quite frankly is more than he did.
She verbally eviscerated the other woman. He didn’t get it.
He was only sorry he got caught, not that he had so hideously betrayed her. He didn’t get it. He didn’t get it. He didn’t fucking get it.
“I would still joyously kill her with my bare hands for what she did to me. In MY HOUSE”.
That may have been hyperbole, but it was hard for him to tell.
Oh my god, she realized. My marriage is over. What the fuck do I do now?
Sullen Mind September 2, 2016
I haven’t been obsessed with a song in so long, I can’t really remember. This one – it propels me to late adolescence, to full-bore yearning adulthood and into the mid-life crises we all face, even if we don’t admit to them. Maybe this song is my Maserati. Who knows? All I know is that it has made its’ way into the part of my brain that hasn’t been so thrilled since David & David’s “Boomtown” or Morphine’s “Cure for Pain” or the Chameleons’ “Swamp Thing”. I know nothing about Ryley Walker – all I know is that I need to hear him sing this at some dreadful club with the echoes of 20 year old smoke and whatever they use to mop the floors…
January 14, Asbury Park January 17, 2012
Oh lawd, what a night…..first, dinner at Langosta Lounge on the boardwalk, where I met Caz and Andy and Roberta for the first time. We had a rollicking great time getting to know each other over excellent cocktails and food. Caz and Andy went off to catch the first few acts – Roberta and I shot a game of pool in the bar at the Berkeley Hotel. I suck, by the way.
I’ve lived here all my life and Linda Chorney was a revelation. A voice like velvet and great guitar chops. No wonder she’s nominated for a Grammy.
Willie Nile made me feel like I was in college again – big arena moves alternating with old-school Elvis Costello knock-knees and a really terrific band.
Garland Jeffries always makes me happy.
But Bruce…..oh, Bruce…..what is it about seeing him on stage for the first time in an evening that makes me think of the first love – the one you saw across a crowded room, the one who makes you feel like you’re in uncharted waters and right at home at the same time? I get a bit dizzy. He makes me clasp my hands across my heart and smile till I think I will perish from delight. Please sing please sing please sing. Stop teasing me with the silence and that grin. And he starts – that black acoustic guitar, the deep breath in — “Spanish Johnny drove in from the underworld last night…..” Oh dear sweet baby jesus, save me.
He was sly, he was flirty, he was effing ANGRY. Adam Raised a Cain was so hot, I thought I would combust. He blessed the crowd with tequila.
I had this thought – that the core band, the ’78 band; no Nils, no Patti, no Soozie – THAT band defined what it meant to be a man. Bruce brought that thought back to me on Saturday night….and then Gruschecky’s drummer left the riser and there was Max.
Now, I have a thing for Max. I cannot explain it, except to say that I started paying attention to his drumming a few years ago and he fascinates me. I never watched Conan, I spent 25 years just assuming he would bring the big beat night after night after night after night….and then I saw the interplay with Bruce, saw the way they read each other’s minds…. he’s a really masculine, powerful drummer and at this point in my life, that is a very attractive attribute.
But I digress.
It was a magical night – right up there with the sticky summer nights decades ago when Southside and the Jukes played Tuesday, Thursday and Sunday at the Pony and the bikers at Mrs Jay’s would take care of you if you weren’t one of those “slutty” girls; and the circuit was the east coast version of American Graffiti. I got home around 3am (I live 20 minutes from AP) and didn’t fall asleep till almost 5.
So thank you, Caz and Andy and Roberta for lighting the fuse early in the evening – I am so glad to have met you – and thank you, Max for looking damn fine in that black t-shirt and wailing on those drumskins – and thank you, Bruce…for being normal and stellar all at the same time. You make me grin. You make me cry. You make me get all wiggly inside. I don’t care how old I am… THIS is rock and roll and it means I’m still alive. And that is a good thing.