A Semi-Scandalous Day at the Beach (in Pictures, Mostly)

Feeling a little under the weather last Sunday, I decided not to forgo surfing and shoot some photos of The Brothers on their long boards instead. I quickly realized that shooting surfers is not only difficult but slightly boring.

But here are two prerequisite shots of Kurt and Kyle surfing anyway:




























See? Not very thrilling. I mean, both guys are great surfers. I'm just not a surf photographer.

So I lay on the beach, basking in the new Spring sunlight and thought about an idea I have for a new series of photographs:

It's a scandalous idea, you see. I would exploit all the young surfer boys I hang out with by taking risque photographs of them. Not porn, per se...just a little edgy. It would make a great coffee table book! Mad wealth would ensue!














I mean, listen - we've had it up to here (finger to neck gesture) with photos of hot, young chicks from a male's point of view. When do you see young men from a woman's point of view? A woman who, in some cases, is twice their age? Ah, just scandalous enough to work, Beth Mann.

But where to begin, where to begin?

As I roused from my sun-drenched semi-sleep, the answer was undressing right before my eyes. His name was....I don't know. But there he was. My first model, as if a sign from above!














He quickly noticed as I began snapping shots of him and didn't seem to mind at all. Au contraire. I think he put on his shirt and took it off about four times.

I shall call him Mr. January (for my calendar series, soon after the coffee table book is published.)




























































Now, some may say this is a little distasteful. My God, I could be their mother! But guess what? I'm not. I'm not their mother. And at 42 years of age, I care less and less what people think. I'm not bedding these guys (and if I was, then what?), I'm just appreciating them in their steamy prime as I pine away at the Jersey shore. Is that so wrong? Wait. Don't answer. Cuz look! I'm not caring again!

The look of me not caring.

Then I decided to take a few of my friend Eric the next day. Eric is the most poetic surfer of the bunch. He's a musician and really into death and Gothic romance. He's got a delicate, sweet quality to him that I just adore. He was tough to photograph because he's a little shy. But I think we're on to something. This was just a warm-up. I think I want to put him in a bathtub with a boa constrictor or something.




























You see, I'm a bit of a pariah down here. In a traditional suburban area, where a woman of my age is either unhappily married with four kids or divorced, raising said four kids on her own, or dead from a meth overdose, I often stand alone, like a 42-year-old single unicorn.


Sure, I hang out with married couples sometimes and usually want to stick my head in a bucket. Most seem so resigned, so discontent. The few that seem happy, well, I desperately long to have what they have...but I don't have it right now.

So I surf, a lot. And these are the boys I surf with - young, silly, strong, daring, awkward at times, just trying to find themselves.

Clint, the oldest Brother

Since I'm not much of a people lover, these young guys have been a real salve to my aching misanthropy and a boon to my spirits. I see them struggle to find themselves, their voice. They are still vulnerable and open and surprisingly gentle, for all of the testosterone coursing through their veins.

They open up their lives to me, without all the decades worth of protective guise and bullshit we layer upon ourselves. Simply put, they make the whole human process seems a little more dear to me. I like watching them unravel like pretty little manly flowers.

And I plan on making a scandalous calendar called, um...The Boys of Summer. No, Girl Gone Wild or I Gotta Get out of Jersey before they Arrest Me!

$21.99.

Just click here to purchase.

Thanks to Joe for his suggestion.

Clint Called me a Slut

“I didn’t call you a slut. I’m just saying you might want to…to tone it down a bit," Clint mumbles into the phone.

He’s referring to my photos on Facebook. I take them myself, of myself. They are only slightly scandalous. A solid PG-13, in my opinion.

“I’m just saying that you send the wrong messages to people when you put those kind of photos up. Guys get a bad impression. People like you and me, we're more…normal than that. Just accept that you’re normal.”

Funny, I don't feel particularly normal. I had called Clint because I was feeling very down this evening. I usually just ride it out on my own but every once in a while, I gamble and reach out.

Clint is the oldest of the brothers I hang out with at the Jersey shore. He’s sort of a James Dean meets Kurt Cobain type. He has trouble speaking what’s on his mind, fretting, frustrating himself then finally saying something he considers all wrong anyway. Lately, he's found God and thinks I need to trim a little of the excess evil out of my life.

“I mean…come on. What guy’s going to…take you…seriously. They are going to think, that you’re a…”

“A slut? Don't you have to have sex in order to be a slut? I think my monastic, incredibly dull life might stand in the way of me and total whoredom."

I wish I was a "slut", whatever the hell that stupid word means. I wish the rumors would fly up and down this dumb island, "Hey, there's Beth Mann. What a slut! She just won't stop fucking. Nobody can stop her. She's literally become a fucking machine." I'd walk by and switch my ass, and drink in all the disapproving looks, like a form of foreplay.












Instead, I'm at home watching Law & Order SVU and eating popcorn, with the painful realization that I need to feel very connected with someone in order to have sex at this point of my life. (Though I do keep hoping Christopher Meloni will jump out of the screen and put me in handcuffs one day. Sigh. That man is built to bang.)

I like taking pictures of myself, I explain to Clint. It’s the way I see how I’m doing, how I’m feeling, who I am. It’s the way I feel sexy without the sex, which seems to be in short supply.











"Any guy who sees you like that, he's not going to take you seriously."

Suddenly I found his shame sinking into my ear, worming its way through my brain. I go to my computer and begin reviewing my "scandalous" shots online. I delete a photograph. Then another.

“Clint, I’m an artist. I take chances. I’m not supposed to worry about people like you and what you think.”

“Well, then don’t. I just think, well, you're not supposed to broadcast those images to everybody.”

“Well who am I supposed to broadcast them to?”

“You reserve them. For your…your…”

“Your what? I don’t have a your, your.”

Delete, delete.

“Those surfboard photos, Beth. Come on. You don’t think they’re a bit…much?”

I bought a new surfboard several months ago and took a series of shots with them. In the nude. Rebel, they call me.

“They’re nudes, Clint. It’s not like I’m fucking the damn board or something!” Delete.












I knew when I entered the wide world of the Web, it could be a sneaky, gross and suspicious place. But I made a conscious choice to express myself my way, to use my name, to be me. Of course, there are times it feels awkward and vulnerable. Of course, it can feel self-exploitative and stupid and when I'm feeling down, it feels painful and embarrassing, revealing myself to some mass audience of god knows who. But I move past it. I try.

“Beth, those kind of photos are for stars, for artists…”

“Clint, you asshole, I am an artist. I've been an active artist for over 20 years.”

“Well...then how come you don’t have more money?”

"Hey, Clint. I have an idea. How about I drive to Philly and lie down in front of you so you can literally kick me when I'm down. It might be easier in the long run. And just so you know, I’m getting a lot of attention lately for my work and…and…”

“Well, when do you get paid for that attention?”

"Are you calling me a slut and a loser? I just want to clarify."

I find myself deleting a blog entry. It's one where I...it's just too much of myself.

I begin to choke up a bit. Shame is so terribly powerful. But Clint didn't introduce these ideas to me. They were already poking holes in my gut. Like I don't feel the discrepancy between my talents and my finances? Like I'm not painfully aware that my photos are really just "me on me" action?

“No, I don’t get paid for attention. Well, I do. I mean...I get paid for what I do creatively. I just don’t get paid a lot for it but I'm surviving. And what’s that have to do with my porn shots anyway?”

“We’re just regular people, that’s all I’m saying. Accept it.”

I prepare to delete one final item of the night: Clint.

I've been deleting a lot of friends as of late. As I spend more and more time alone, battling my inner demons and demigods, my friends' input has been falling short. Its as if they really don't know me anyway and their feedback seems woefully off-track. Clint is my friend and he's dear to me. He thinks he's helping or protecting me. He just doesn't know me. My friends don't seem to know me anymore.

"You know, Clint. Maybe these are your issues. You're feeling frustrated sexually, creatively. You'd like to break out of your normalcy rut. And you're just taking me down with you."

"Maybe you're right."

"Well, it worked."









Clint and I being normal

Get off of Wine's Back!

Good wine is a necessity of life for me.
- Thomas Jefferson

As we speak, I have a glass of wine next to me. It is a decent California zinfandel. It's fruity, bright and a little simple, just like its drinker. My wine makes me happy, and as the annoying pop song goes, “If it makes me happy, it can’t be that bad.”

Well, apparently, it is that bad. Even one damn glass is that bad. This is according to the recent study by Oxford University, where over 1 million women were studied over a 3-year period on the effects of alcohol and overall health.

Here are the results, in short:

A history of low or moderate alcohol consumption increased the risk of a half dozen types of cancer as well as total cancer. The risk was greatest for breast cancer, which increased by 11 cases per 1,000 to age 75 with every additional drink.

Now I’m no doctor (though I play one on my internal TV) but here’s my very non-medical and slightly intoxicated opinion on all of this:

1. The Brits are really unhealthy anyway. Why are we taking their word on this? They're the ones who created the pasty look. They eat jellied eel and Spotted Dick. Their country was literally built on a foundation of white sugar and clotted cream.

2. What? Stress is better? So now, because of this study, a substantial amount of women will forgo that one glass of wine after a busy day and drink a nice, hot cup of their own stress-induced cortisol in its place. Goodbye cancer, hello heart disease.

3. Can we deny ourselves of any more pleasure? I already cut out masturbation because it makes hair grow on the back of your hands (right?) No more…no more! I can’t be any gooder than this.

4. We’re study junkies with spinning heads. Of course, we all remember when we were told wine was actually good for us, just a few years ago. We were happy. That was good news! Now a new study pops out, with totally divergent results and we're supposed to manically march like good little soldiers in a brand new direction.

5. Wine is natural. It’s grape. People have been drinking wine since the beginning of forever! So we’ll give up wine and drink what? Lime-flavored Gatorade? Caffeine-riddled Red Bull? Aspartame-rich Diet Coke? Come on…wine is a lovingly crafted beverage made from natural ingredients. It’s not the bad guy, in the bigger scheme of things, unless you’re an alcoholic.

6. Look at the happiness in the woman’s face at the top of the page. Do you want to wipe that sexy, come hither grin off of her Chardonnay lovin’ face? I don’t want to deny this model of her happiness. Let's drink for the young lady above, if for no one else. Salud, lady.

7. Can't you see? They’re trying to make nuns of us! Listen to what this doctor had to say about the study:

In a related commentary, Dr. Michael S. Lauer and Dr. Paul Sorlie, from the National Institutes of Health, Bethesda, Maryland, wrote:

Despite its attractions, alcohol has been the proximate cause of a great deal of human misery, now with additional documentation by the elegant report of Allen et. al.

Human misery? What is this, the Prohibition? Are you the new preacher in town? Who asked for your moral judgment on booze, Dr. Lauer? And who calls reports “elegant” anyway? Reports aren't elegant. They're just not. They aren't racy or sexy either.

I love wine.

I gave up cigarettes a while back. I consume very little white sugar or white flour products. I make most, if not all, of my own food. I don’t litter or chew mint-explosive gum or use aerosol hair spray or permanent hair dyes. I wear SPF and use natural makeup. I drink one cup of coffee a day (okay maybe two.) I gave up toxic people and polluted environments. I recycle. I pray. I run on the beach and say sorry when I disturb a bunch of seagulls. I take deep breaths and cry to dispel pent-up emotions so they don’t eat me alive. I live to the best of my ability.

The wine stays.

And that’s that.









Me and Wine (on the left)
Come quickly! I am tasting stars!

- Dom Perignon (1638-1714) at his first sip of champagne

My Wizard of Oz

The sign of a good movie? It changes your life. It changes the very fabric of who you are. The Wizard of Oz did that for me. It still does. It's a classic feminine myth that instills in me hope, innocence and belief in pure, raw magic. It guides and shapes me. It still provides me with answers to questions I can't even begin to verbalize. It goes straight to my subconscious and gets to work, mending me, making me whole and good again.

Judy Garland's portrayal of Dorothy has danced in my mind my entire life. Unknowingly, for the most part, I aspire to be like her: open, sweet, growing, changing, strong, loving and dare I say, deeply sexual. She is everything I consider beautiful.

Glinda the Good Witch also resides in my soul; a beacon of dazzling white goodness. She is all that sparkles and nurtures. I dream of her kissing my forehead, during hard times. And the Wicked Witch...ah, what a good, bad witch! She remains one of the most perfect bad witches of all time, no? She lives in me too. (Probably too much of the time!)

As a child, I lived for its airing, which it did once a year, some time around Easter. Hiding in a blanket fort with just the television and me, I'd transport myself somewhere over the rainbow. Somewhere far from my home, which was rather barren and bleak much of the time. Somewhere magic ruled and prevailed.

The Wizard of Oz smoothes out the mess for me. It shoots right to my center, right to a sweet spot in my soul. It provides hope to my hopelessness. Magic to my well-worn cynicism. Angels to my devils. It reminds me of who I am, somewhere deep, somewhere over a rainbow - that alternate, perfect universe where I am whole, strong, beautiful and deeply feminine. And magic abounds everywhere, just everywhere! There is no doubt in the land of Oz.

The Wizard of Oz heals the little girl in me, over and over again. Does that sound too corny? Oh good. I hope it does.

Surrender, Dorothy, I wrote on my mirror in lipstick.

I'm trying, I'm trying...every day!

I'll Never be in Godspell Again

I’ll never be in Godspell again. I’m sitting here, on a rainy afternoon at the Jersey shore, listening to Day by Day from the 1970’s musical Godspell and crying when I really should be working. I’m on my 5th listen.

I was in Godspell in college. It was my second or third play ever. I was ecstatic to be in it. It was a musical! I got to sing and dance! How much better does it get than that? And not only that, I was chosen to sing Day by Day! The best song in the show. The best one! (Though I secretly wanted to sing By My Side too.)

I sang Day by Day proudly, using sign language (for the two deaf people that showed up for the one month run of the show.) I still remember how to sign that damn song. Whenever I meet someone deaf or even hearing impaired, apropos of nothing, I start signing Day by Day, Oh dear Lord, three things I pray” and they think I’m a religious fanatic or just a nut.

The only thing that marred my joyous little performance was a run-in I had with Jesus. Glenn. Glenn Funkhauser. Yep. That was his name. I haven’t thought about that name in years. I can’t remember what I had for breakfast this morning but I remember Glenn Funkhauser’s name…interesting. Anyway, he played Jesus and he was a haughty, self-involved diva of a Jesus. He gave a Jesus a bad name.

At the end of each show, we re-enacted the Last Supper, where we said goodbye to our fair leader. It was a very teary climax and we just loved it. As college kids studying theater, we were just teeming with emotion, so earnest. Our emotional cup runneth over.

So Jesus would walk up to each one of us, tap us on the back, we’d rise and have our own personal heartfelt goodbye with the Lord Jesus Christ, Glenn Funkhauser.

On one particularly emotional night, I leapt up and hugged him with all of my might, crying my little eyes out. He whispered in my ear, “Don’t anticipate. You got up before I tapped you on the shoulder.”

I could have died. Jesus just critiqued me during my most vulnerable moment ever! I wanted to deck the Lord right then and there. How dare he direct me in the middle of a show?! Who did he think he was? God?

After the show, I went up to Glenn “Jesus” Funkhauser and told him to kiss my ass hard. I was livid! I felt spiritually violated.

But other than that, Godspell was a sweet memory during a sweet time. And I’ll never be in it again. I’ll never sing Day by Day again in front of a restless audience. (If you say I could be in the show again if I wanted, you’re missing the point. It was that time, that energy, that opportunity, those people - even that diva of a Jesus. It was that beautiful little glory.)

One actor came up to me after a show one night and said something about “goose bumps” when I sang my song. I thought he meant I gave him goose bumps but he clarified before I gushed too much. He said, “No, you give yourself goose bumps when you sing that song. I can see them all over your arms. I’m standing right next to you.” I wasn’t as flattered but I knew he was right. It’s not every day you get to sing to God so simply, with all of your heart. Oh, time is so stupidly precious.

Time for a 6th listen. I haven’t sobbed the memory out of me yet. I don’t get paid for this melancholy, man.

To Glenn Funkhauser, wherever you are: I hope you know that I'm a practicing Satanist because of you. I eat kittens now, Glenn, kittens!

Day by Day
Day by Day
Oh Dear Lord, three things I pray
To see thee more clearly
Love thee more dearly
Follow thee more nearly
Day by Day

Many of the original cast members, with Robin Lamont singing (4 of the 10 have died):



Cilla Black (she's great but I like Lamont better for this song.)

The Only New Year's Resolution that Stuck

It's kind of late to be writing about New Year's resolutions but my resolution to stop procrastinating never stuck, so here we are, a month later.

Anyway, there's only one New Year's resolution that's made a difference in my life, one I made many years ago. It was simply to touch people more. Physically touch them.

I was raised in a family of Germanic descent, not the most touchy, feely type. My brothers still hug me more awkwardly then anyone I know. It can't even be called a hug technically. Its this weird physical action that actually manages to push you away instead of pulling you toward them. It seems like a physical impossibility but they manage it.

I didn't want to be like that so I decided to touch people more. Everybody secretly loves it. I love it. It's natural but we've quite literally lost our touch. We'd rather text a hug these days.

I've also taken to kissing people on the lips more. Men, women, children, small farm animals...I don't care. I gave the local bartender a big, fat kiss on the lips last week and he was slightly shocked. He just muttered, "lips" and walked away, disoriented. Gave him something to think about for the night, I figured.

At a restaurant not too long ago, I saw these two women, old friends apparently, who seemed like they were having such a fun time. Laughing, telling bawdy jokes. I watched them from afar, admiring their deep kinship. When I walked by them to go to the restroom, I stopped and put a hand on each of their shoulders. I squeezed and smiled. One woman asked, "Do we know you?" I said no you don't. And kept walking...okay, so maybe that was a little much.

There was a girl in college...what was her name...Carolyn Carpenter! She and I liked to slap each other in the face at the same time. We did it for years. Not sure why. We just did. It became our thing, unison face slapping, on the count of three. We'd slap each other so hard, sometimes one of us would lose our footing. Ah, the good old days of slapping Carolyn. "If I could turn back time," Cher sings in my mind.

I also like to tell people I love them more - the ultimate verbal touch. It's strange how we covet "I love you." There's some arbitrary time limit before it can be uttered. It's just not acceptable to say those words until one year of knowing someone or some nonsense like that. But we all know whom we love, don't we? When you're in their presence, it radiates from your heart, rather effortlessly. Love rings as clear as a bell, regardless of time logged.

Years ago, when my mother was very sick, my ex-boyfriend's family invited her to their home in Philadelphia for a visit. They fussed and fawned over her - just what she needed in her beleaguered state. After one day, one day, of knowing my mother, my ex's aunt said to her, during a parting hug, "Randee, I love you." I'll never forget that. She wasn't lying and my mother was deeply touched.

Someone from my online writing group told me she loved me the other day and I believe her. How kind to say that. And how simple. Even online, love can develop. That's sometimes hard to believe and often easy to dismiss. But perhaps online we get a deeper sense of another. In person, we tend to clam up, fidget, become guarded and weird. Online, its our pure mental energy meeting, like some science fiction love story.

Or perhaps love needs physical presence to truly expand. I'm just not sure.

There's a man, a wonderful musician, I've talked with online for years. Sometimes when I sign off, after a long night of chatting, joking, flirting and sharing, I can feel him around me, like a mystical vapor. And I wonder whether it would be drastically different if we met in "person." Some would say yes, it could be very different. But I feel his essence, rather viscerally, nonetheless. I feel his touch.

There was no New Year's resolution for me this year. This resolution seems to have sufficed for years to come, I do believe. It continues to grow. It's the best one ever.

The Black Knights of Brooklyn

Your move to New York City was a big, fat silent scream. After living in the lush hills of San Francisco, New York was a resounding bitch slap. Overpriced, dirty, yelling. The dot-com days had passed and cities like New York seem impossible on your razor-thin budget. The neighborhoods you live in seedy (yet expensive) and your social life sparse (going out costs money).

During your final phase in the city, you move in with your ex-boyfriend (well hello, mistake #1) because you thought enough time had passed since your messy break-up 10 years before. No romantic feelings. Hard feelings, behind you both. Besides, there wasn't much of a choice. New York City can make strange bedfellows of us all.

Your savings dry up like a dirty raindrop on Brooklyn cement. Sporadic and strange jobs barely keep your head above water. You return from a dreary day to a home in a noisy and dangerous Jamaican neighborhood. You make a modest meal, drink cheap wine and wonder how much longer you can take this.

You’ve tried, Beth. Several years. This place sucks and you need to get the hell out.

Later that night, you meet up with a good friend at a bar. She’s one of the reasons you moved here, but like other friends in New York, you rarely see them. Maybe you’re secretly mad at her for not being around. Or maybe you’re just drunk. The two of you get in a squabble about something stupid. You leave the bar late at night and run home. (This is both for catharsis and safety.)

Arriving home, you see your ex and are relieved he’s there, even though he can be notoriously cold comfort. He sees your tears and says, “What is it this time?”

You try to overlook the stinging rudeness of his tone and tell him that you argued with your good friend. And you’ve hit a limit. Your soul feels flattened. Your nervous system rattled. You’re worried about yourself, that you might need...help.

He responds by walking toward his bedroom, with an “I don’t know what to say anymore. You’re just a constant complaint.” You stand at his bedroom doorway, shocked and hurt. He closes the door.

There may be nothing worse, you wonder, then the feeling a door being closed on you. The game “Don’t Spill the Beans” comes to mind. That door shutting was that last bean.

You pick up your witch’s broom (because you fancy yourself a neo-pagan of some sort) and begin to trash the living room. You’ve never done anything like this before. You watch yourself from a distance as you slam your stereo, a vase, the little glass doll your grandmother gave you when you were 8.

You head toward the kitchen and smash dishes and glasses in the dishrack. You hear the cat furiously digging its claws into the wooden floor, racing to find a hiding place.

Screaming at the top of your lungs, you say, “What does it take to get some fucking kindness around here?” You hear your ex yelling from the bedroom. He’s calling the police. “Call ‘em, you fucking jerk! Maybe they’ll give a shit!” Smash, crash, bang.

You flash back to the early years with this man, how he’d have similar tirades and just trash the joint. And how scared you used to be. How dutifully you picked up the pieces afterwards. How stupid you were to stay.

“Hey, asshole! You used to do this shit all the time, remember? How’s it feel now? You pick up the pieces for once!” (Apparently, it looks like you haven’t let go of all the hard feelings.)

Something is unraveling and it’s both freeing and truly terrifying. It’s like your psyche is projectile vomiting. You have no doubt that this is what lands people in loony bins but you don’t care. You pick a sharp piece of glass from the floor and stare at it for too long, imagining the things it could do.

A loud knock at the door breaks your trance. You know it’s the cops. You really don’t care. And you should.

You open the door and before you stands a vision you’ll never forget: two of the largest, most imposing cops you’ve laid eyes on. One man, one woman, both pitch black in skin color. Jamaican. Both easily standing 6”6. Shoulder-to-shoulder wall of cop. The ultimate crazy girl stopper.

You drop the shard of glass and look into their eyes, as broken as the vandalized pay phone on the corner.

You fall slightly forward and the male cop catches you, picks you up like a rag doll and takes you to the couch, where both sit on either side of you. Their massive arms encircle you like truck tires. You let out a cry that you never knew existed in you. It’s more of a howl, like a trapped animal. Or an unwanted baby, left alone in a room for too long.

You look up at their warm eyes and say, “I can’t, I can’t do this anymore. I’m so alone. Tired. Nobody’s there. Nobody’s…nice anymore.” They hug you even tighter and suddenly you feel transported, as if to a special womb designed for chicks losing their shit. They say reassuring words. “It’s alright. We’re here now. We care. You have somebody now.”

It’s as if they know you. It’s as if, clearly, clearly, they are not cops but angels.

You tell them how sorry you are and the man says, “You don’t have to be sorry. It’s all right to lose it sometimes.” You can’t believe someone just gave you that kind of permission. No one in your life has given you license to let the darkness pour out of you like a sick, black flood. Looking around, you also begin to realize everything you broke was yours, only adding insult to injury.

“Do you have any friends here, sweetheart?” the woman asks. You thought you did, you tell her. But everyone is too busy. She tells me that she’s not too busy.

They sit with you, rocking you gently, for what feels like an eternity. At one point, you laugh. You laugh, thinking of all of the shit that goes down in this neighborhood--the drug deals, the street fights, the stealing--but tonight, you’re the trouble. You share this with them and they laugh in agreement.

Your ex never leaves the bedroom. The cops gently place you in your bed with a glass of water, kind touches, and almost imperceptible words of kindness. After they leave, you realize you have just experienced something divine and full of grace. Two magical strangers just made everything better, simply by caring.

Months later, as you take steps toward getting the hell out, you write the 76th precinct a letter. You write how, in your wildest dreams, you never thought police could offer the kind of help they did that night. And that you will never forget their kindness.

Right before you leave New York, you receive a letter back from the precinct, telling you that they hung the letter up on their wall. And yes, cops do all sorts of things that one can’t imagine.

You leave New York with renewed hope. Life kinda sucked here. No question about that. But even in your darkest hour, angels appeared and guided your way. You trust in the magic of the Universe once again, even if it’s just a little.

With a lighter heart and a cigarette in mouth, you leave the city and head to your old family home at the Jersey shore, emotionally threadbare but ready to start again

Special thanks to my friends Joe and Elena who constantly remind me that I don’t ask for too much. To my friends mentioned in this story, you mean far more to me than the constraints of this story and I hope you understand.

Belle of the Rock Bottom Ball

 

Okay, somebody has to get off this island and right quick before she ends up in a poorly lit rehab with leather-skinned fishermen and ex-Wendy’s employees.

I’m caged in this old house. Caged, I tell you.  And when I manage to break out, this Godzilla-style beast is unleashed in me. And I can’t control her anymore. Nobody can! And maybe, just maybe, nobody should.

Picture this:

You’re in your 40’s, enduring your first winter at the Jersey shore. And while you’re happy to be out of that nasty old city, this place is now a vast wasteland of howling, icy winds and empty beige houses. This is where souls are frozen solid.

 

And maybe that kind of atmosphere wouldn’t be so bad if you were contentedly married or a stamp-collecting introvert. But you’re not! You have raw life pulsing through that sweet bod of yours!

 

Besides, there are only so many episodes of Law & Order (though granted, there are a friggin’ lot). And what about fucking? Remember good old-fashioned fucking? Back in day? When you fucked like the other humanoids do?

So drag that ass of yours out of bed, run a brush through those locks and put on a little lipstick. Do it. There you go. Now go get ‘em.

You go to a local Manhattan-wannabe bar for Happy Hour, which after some overpriced wine, bleeds into Happy Hours. Maybe you should go home now. You did technically “go out” afterall.

 

But the beast convinces you to stop by the youngest brother’s new apartment where a party is in full swing. Kurt is in his early twenties with a Spicolli stoney smiley vibe to him. He and his friends are too young to deal with on a constant basis, but in doses it feels like a blast of fresh, testosterone-laden air.

 

The boy you are playing beer pong (yep, beer pong) keeps lifting his shirt up, attempting to distract you with his tight abs, as if he knows why you’re really there. This only improves your game. In between winning shots, you meet mid-table and make out with him. Go home heathen girl, go home.

Kurt invites you to take a hit from “The Gravitator”, a towering pot-smoking device designed to generate the biggest hit of weed ever. After coughing spasmodically for ten minutes, you realize that your wine buzz has morphed into an acid trip-like. Oh you’re in trouble now, you bad girl.

 

The floor tilts and realigns itself like a funhouse floor. The young partiers start to glow and pulsate. Are they angels? They must be angels. “You guys look really pretty,” you think--no you say--out loud.

 

Everyone looks at you queerly. You sit down because, well, you pretty much have to. A cute girl with a springy ponytail comes up to you and asks you if you need something. Water, please. Water. I think I’m going to pass out.

Now you can’t go home. It’s midnight and there’s no one who can help you because they’re just as wasted. And they’re in their 20’s! Their brains are barely formed, for god’s sakes.

Please, God, I’m sorry. Help me get home and I’ll stay put. I’ll be a good little shut-in, I promise.

You need to lie down so you make a mad dash for a bedroom at the end of a dark hallway. Stumbling around in darkness and kicking through piles of clothes, you find a bed. Score! You lie down gratefully. But that feeling doesn’t last for long. Because here comes...

 

The spins! Not the dreaded spins!! Please don’t let me get sick in that disgusting bathroom. Oh God, why have I done this to myself?

 

But God isn’t here. You have entered a godless land of tripping, puking inner demons. Your heart pounds and your breath, shallow. You hear the partygoers. Sounds like they’re chanting. You may be sacrificed so don’t fall asleep. You stare at a Bob Marley poster on the wall, waiting for his instruction. He is silent, pondering.

 

Bob…help me, man.

At 3 am the dreadlocked kid who owns this bedroom comes in, wrapped in a red blanket and ready to sleep. He stands in the doorway awkwardly. You tell him get out. Please. He leaves quietly with a defeated sigh. Devil.

Your racing mind drifts to a recent conversation with a friend who has noticed this strange new phase you’re entered. He thinks you’re trying to recapture your past.

 

No, I never had that past, you tell him. My past is now. A childhood burdened with adult responsibility, 20’s mired in drug-addled disconnectedness and insecurity, 30’s saddled with dysfunctional one-sided relationships that I sold my soul to maintain.

 

But now, you tell him, you feel free. Sure, a little crazy, but free. And one step closer to whole. So even if it looks like a fucking mess, it’s my fucking mess.

Trying to recapture your past? You're trying to capture your present for once.

It’s 4 am and you finally roll out of the devil’s bed, grab your coat and tell Bob Marley thank you and good night (he smiles knowingly). You walk into the living room and wake the young man on the couch. You tell him he can have his bed back. Thanks dude. The devil is gone now.

 

The remaining partiers sit at a bottle-strewn table staring at your bedraggled self. You laugh at their reaction but laughing makes your head hurt so you stop.

You could feel awkward or a little embarrassed but instead you feel thankful for the beautiful and bizarre hybrid that you’re becoming. Maybe only you can see her beauty. Maybe you’re the only one who needs to.

You look at the partiers before walking out into the bitter cold of the night and say:

This is what freedom looks like, boys and girls. It’s not always pretty.

 

Turn it on Again

I watched a video by the White Stripes a few days ago at a friend's house. Some hotshot director made it. Lots of fast cuts and random images and money behind it…a very busy video. I couldn’t even hear the song, the visuals were trying so hard to dazzle me. It was creative masturbation at its finest. Video overkill. It was as if everyone forgot that the basis of the video was actually a song.

I hearkened back to the days of yore, when videos were simple. Maybe they weren’t great, but they did their job and understated the song. The band members also seemed more capable of performing the song, not reliant on computer generated effects to do the work. Then sometimes, it was nice to see their vulnerability (see Red Rider below) in front of a camera, not quite knowing what to do. They seemed human and sweetly imperfect.

Video Concert Hall was the first video show I ever witnessed, pre-MTV. I couldn't find the opening of the program but this was the theme song:


Led Zeppelin, Carouselambra


Video Concert Hall came on at 3 pm and my friends and I would race from school to my house to watch it. My mother worked until 5, so we could smoke our cigs and be little bad asses in peace; wide-eyed and glued to the first visuals of our rock stars.

This was the first video I ever saw on Video Concert Hall and to this day, it remains one of my favorite videos (as well as one of my favorite songs.) Not a lot of rapid cuts, or people morphing into animals or the sky raining drops of blood. No visual mindfucks or editing overkills. Just a great song, a great band (at the time) and a video of it.


Genesis, not being fancy with Turn it on Again


Here's a few other Video Concert Hall faves. Make sure you get to the end, where The Who display how effective a simple video can be (even though John Entwistle may already be dead in Who are You, I don't know.)


Nazareth, Holiday


Pete Townshend, Keep on Working Pete keeps it so simple, he doesn't even get out of his ratty robe. Viva la Pete Townshend!


Iggy Pop is Bored, Chairman of the Bored


The Pretenders being one of the most well-rounded bands


Herb Albert, Rise (aka Luke and Laura's Rape Song)


Red Rider, Lunatic Fringe


Split Enz with the ever lovely Neil Finn


The Who being the best band ever. If Keith Moon hadn't become a drummer, he would have exploded, I do believe. Perhaps he did...


Okay, actually this is the only Who video I remember on VCH. I want to grow up and be Pete Townshend. I love Pete in this, shaking his cute little ass. Nothing hotter than when a man knows his ass looks good...yep, nothing. (Stop talking about asses Beth. Its totally irrelevant to this blog post. No, you stop talking about asses...shhh, both of you.)

And to prove that I'm not living in the Dark Ages, I like the simplicity of this video (though I guess its got simple built-in, since it just a video recording of a studio session.)


Silversun Pickups, Lazy Eye. Is this guy's voice wild or what?

This post dedicated to Krissie, who sang every song with me.

EXTRA BONUS VIDEO:

My friend from Open Salon preferred this version of Turn It On Again, and I must confess, it's wonderful. It's great to see Phil so energetic:

I Want to be Micromanaged by Tom Cruise

I don’t have the movie star hots for Tom Cruise. I don’t even like him much as actor. He seems like a shiny little alien. But a while back, in a crowded line at the grocery store, I read about his controlling behavior toward his now ex-wife, Katie Holmes.

Apparently poor Kate was stuck in a “Cruisian prison.” And her husband possessed special mental powers that made her comply with his wishes. A Tom Cruise mindlock.

As I struggled with my groceries one winter night, I dreamt of becoming a fellow captive with fragile, frightened Kate where her extra-terrestrial husband is in complete charge of my life too.

Certainly I wouldn’t have to fumble with all these bags if under Tom’s spell. Nor would I break out in a cold sweat as the cashier processed a credit card that’s just about tapped. It’s easy street with Tom and me. He tells me what to eat, when to bathe, what to wear, how to cut my hair. He tells me how long to sleep, whom I can talk to and where my eyes can fall when he’s not around (like the life-size oil painting of his image in our spacious living room).

When Kate pulls me aside to plan our great escape, I break free of her bony grip and run back to Tom, asking him what he wants me to do next. He tells me, firmly and with authority, how to manage a number of annoying situations in my life, like my health insurance denying a recent claim or my chronically leaking toilet. He tells me why my car is making a weird whistling sound and the best way to get that wine stain out of my carpet. What doesn’t Tom Cruise know? He knows everything and frankly, my stress-addled brain needs a serious break.

Sure there’s the Scientology issue. This could be a problem since I can’t stand having religion shoved down my throat. But Tom embraces the challenge. Everyday, he tries to convert me and every day, I’d be this close to letting him. Then I’d say coyly, “Let me think about it, Tommy.” He’d give me a firm slap and remind me that he does the thinking for us now.

So I reluctantly convert to Scientology and act the part for a while. Then I’d purposefully do things to upset him, like wearing scantily clad outfits and acting trashy in public. He lectures me, punishes me. He even grounds me for two weeks. And I’m not mad. I think it’s high time I was grounded for a little while. Put me in my place. Give me some time to think about my behavior. 

Of course, I’d love this controlling behavior to translate into hot, steamy sex but unfortunately, it doesn’t. He withholds sex for me. It’s part of his master plan (or so he says. Not sure if I quite believe him.)

On the sly, I have sex with my suave, bronze personal trainer Paulo. But Tom catches me in the act! I’m grounded once again, this time for a whole month (!). I lay facedown, crying poolside. Tom walks by. “I’m sorry, Tom Cruise. I’m sorry!” He marches away abruptly and I surreptitiously pull out the cocktail stashed under my lounge chair. (It’s an organic peach margarita. My personal chef Kenneth makes them for me. Delish.) 

My Crusian fantasy life is ruthlessly cut short when one of my grocery bags splits open, the contents spilling all over the ice-laced cement. (And of course the effin’ eggs have to be in that bag.) As I chase a rolling apple, I look up to the heavens and whisper, “Tom Cruise, help me now. Please!” 

And you know what? He appears by my rusty Toyota truck, that eerily dazzling smile of his. Tears of relief fall from my eyes. He says mellifluously, “The struggle is over. I’m here now.” 

A bodyguard grabs the bags from my arms and leads me into the passenger seat. Tom takes my keys and starts the car. The whistling sound is gone. It’s gone! Tom Cruise’s mere presence has fixed my car. As we drive home, he tells me to cross my legs. I look like a slut.  

My pleasure, Tom Cruise. My pleasure.