Death in the Park

I guess I was misled –

Thinking that punks are dead.

Or maybe I just thought they only lived in Londontown, not here in New York, crawling from the underground.

They come in dirty droves, followed by clouds, smoke, and stench,

lay haplessly in the grass, the park bench.

Locked by dread, of the hair and humankind,

people scatter when they wonder, mostly fear in mind.

I don’t care to try and fight, these punks are generally quite polite. 

At least more often than not, which is saying a lot, considering the other type of man I’ve seen.

Short and stout, not long and lean, called me a cunt in my own bed. 

Crawled in my heart and wished it dead.

I expected more from a man Down Under, what I got instead, my soul plundered.

You can bet I’d trust a sloppy punk over a man like that.

Someone like MCA in the early days,

or later still -

hell, in any phase.

Enough already, this shit is troubling,

New York I'm ready for something real and lovely.

Brooklyn, what's the news?

I'm ready to shake these blues.

Send me a muse!

Keep the crocodiles at bay, their teeth sharper than their wit

That for me, just won't fit

In my heart or in my head.

Send me something my soul won't dread.  

Reaching in at the Same Time

When I was a young girl and obsessed with My So-Called Life (just like all my other friends), I found myself wrapped up in the idea of romance more than romance itself. My friend Jenny used to tease me that I was basically waiting around expecting to meet the love of my life at the grocery store - just as we reached for the same carton of milk.

In college, I held onto some of that ideal, expecting it to evolve. I would meet him in a similar scenario, however this time, we would be reaching for the same CD at the record store, therefore forever united by our favorite band. This may have been influenced by High Fidelity and my reaffirmed love of John Cusack. Sorry, Jordan Catalano (I will always love you too).

When that didn't pan out either, I thought, well, maybe we'll meet at a show. Archers of Loaf reunited and toured a few summer's ago, and my romantic sentiment was like, "Yes! This is it! Your Milk Man is here!" Instead a met a guy whose favorite band was Kid Rock. Sorry, buddy. That's not really soul mate material for me.

Ok, what about the more practical side of true romance? Meet at work, of course! What had I been thinking all those years? The average American spends something ridiculous like 1 million hours at work, so it is totally logical that two people would discover that they have similar interests in that environment and fall in love. Hardly. Instead you end up dating 2% when you like actually prefer Skim, or worse, trying some weird, non-dairy version just so you can remember what it's like to have a boyfriend, or something like one.

It's still not milk, people.

I don't mind all these missed connections, I know that life is full of them, and I'm lucky to get to try some on for size. I refuse to let go of the romantic ideal, and I'm happy to wait for the right moment to reach in and take hold of your hand.

Bury Me

I want you.

To reach over and touch your hair.

The permission to do it anytime,

To wipe the bed from your head.

To kiss your face and remember how beautiful your eyes are. 

To look past your impatiently shaking leg and move it beneath me instead.

I want to color in the lines of your tattooed arm,

Make the ink explode from my fingertips into the palm of your heart.

You can draw shapes in my freckles in exchange.  

I want the weight of your mind to mingle with mine.

I want to talk till dawn on the porch of our house

Covered in quilts

Dealing another round,

(Pouring another one too)

Never going to sleep, but dreaming the future into now.

You are present.

Your smooth hands across my back,

Lips on my shoulder blade

Filling in the ink on my own battered tattoo.

I want to drink your ink

The deep, dark ocean of you.

Bury me at sea.

I wake up drowning, aching for land -

Long landscapes sweeping, screaming.

There is no rescue from this.

New York, New York, I Love You.

My First New York: Early Adventures in the Big City is the perfect book to read as new New Yorker. It starts in 1933 with former mayor David Dinkins tale and ends with an aspiring actress' hopes of a bright future in end of the first decade of the 2000s. The stories are fresh and youthful, full of promise and fear, excitement and humor. The editor's preface sums it up like this, "...one's arrival in this city [is] a memory as primal, potent and private (yet begging to be shared) as that other First Time."

While I won't share that awkward story with you, I will share this: I'm seven months deep in my life in New York, and I'm deeply in love. Fuck Virginia, this is the place that is made for lovers.

It is Sunday, 74 degrees in the last days of Summer, and I have been 31 for a week. I live in the East Village in a cozy little spot (that I pay far to much for), where I can sit on my fire escape and dream. I am listening to a mix of Motown greats like Sam Cooke, Otis Redding, Solomon Burke and the fabulous Aretha Franklin. I have had a beautiful weekend filled with sarcasm and sex, light and love, rain and rock stars. I have seen the second of five shows that I will see in eight days, 4 of which are nearly back to back. Come Friday I will be exhausted, with only a few precious hours to catch up on my sleep before I host friends for the weekend. I couldn't be happier. My heart is open, and my ears are too. They say to keep your eyes on the prize? Well, that prize is you.

The Complex Nature of Being a Cool Aunt

For the second time this year, I bought a Rolling Stone magazine on a whim at the airport, based on the cover picture alone. The first time, Yann lured me in via sympathy plea - Beastie Boy Adam Yauch had just died and I had just moved to Manhattan, seemingly right on queue. This time, the lead stars of AMC’s Breaking Bad; a show I avoided for far too long, and have been flying through on Netflix for most of the summer, snatched me quick. Even though I am reading a Bowie biography, Loving the Alien, and even though I just got the chapter about his starring role in Labyrinth, which I have been looking forward to greatly, I decided to dive into RS. Jareth can wait a little while longer.

Rolling Stone is still the same familiar, intelligent magazine, and I am happy to pass the time catching up on all the hot topics in the mass media market. While reading a bit on Bob Dylan’s newest feat - his 35^th if you can believe it - aptly named Tempest, (which Dylan denies is a subtle nod to Shakespeare, though I like that link too much to ignore it here); I decided to listen to Bringing It All Back Home. Fitting, as I am leaving Asheville, a place where my heart has a home, and heading back to New York, where my heart is trying to find a place to put some roots down. As I leave North Carolina, I’m feeling a little overwhelmed with nostalgia, but am happy to be so bestowed with those memories, and some new ones too. My sunburn is fresh from tubing down the dirty French Broad River, but I am nevertheless doing well considering my current flurry of activities and satiated state of mind.

I get through most of RS without fuss or muss, enjoying the heavy-hitting stream of still talented writers and journalists. I miss some of the cocky reassurance of reading my man Hunter S. Thompson, but find the stories spun by the likes of Matt Taibbi and Brian Hiatt to be above par. Coverage of the outstanding Bryan Cranston (Malcolm in the Middle), and new-comer and current Hollywood bad-boy crush Aaron Paul is something Jann Wenner should be proud of. It teases the reader with just enough detail - without any spoilers - to keep the show, and its creators, just as fresh and exciting as watching the show itself. I am a glutton for my crushes, so I didn’t predict disappointment in my read. 

For the most part, I continued this symbiotic relationship with RS up until I met up with journalist Jonah Weiner’s piece on newbie band Best Coast's frontwoman Bethany Cosentino. I don’t know what I expected exactly, but this article’s flippant, no-consequences attitude rubbed me wrong. 25-year old Bethany seems a likable band member and interviewee, up until you realize all she seems to care about is Jameson, getting high and her hot boyfriend. All things I liked at that age, and still do to some extent, hell I’m only 30. But reading this, all I could think of (in a sarcastic tone) was, "ugh, fame is just so hard sometimes..." And this is coming from someone who loves a heavily padded and hazy artist biography like a heroin addict likes sugar (see Slash and Life).

So what was it exactly that made me so unsympathetic? 

Maybe I spent too much time this weekend with the children of my friends - little girls who can grow up to be anything they want, who will constantly look for role models in the women in their lives, including rock stars - to care to read about how pilled-out, coked-up and drunk off bourbon this chick has to be to overcome her anxiety to perform in a top-notch and quiet famous band. Call me old-fashioned, but what I care about more is how you became the awesome woman you are. I prefer the likes of Carrie Brownstein, Kim Deal, Stevie Nicks, and Pattie Smith to lean on for queues on how to pursue your dreams and become a badass in a world predominately ruled by men, drug abuse, inferiority complexes and dreams dashed by all of the above. If a writer like Jonah isn’t interested in those sides of the story, then I don’t think I’ll look for her name when I want to know about a breakout female artist. 

Not to mention Bethany herself. In a few years, I feel like she will look back on this interview in embarrassment at the Holly-Golikely, blasé attitude she presented herself in. I don’t want the daughters of my friends to look up to someone like that for guidance on how to be an artist and an adult. More importantly, I don't want these ladies to think that the only kind of writing that is appropriate for young women/role models is to show off their complete disregard for anyone but themselves. As a young writer, I like to read about all kinds of things, but when it comes to role models, I like to see complex stories about hope in the face of struggle and the enduring nature of the human spirit, even when overcome with anxiety.

This weekend allowed the littlest ladies in my life help me accept my own position as a role model in their lives. The nerd in me is growing up, and as an aunt, I find myself holding Rolling Stone to a new standard as another great learning tool to help us all figure out the kind of woman you want to be, and the kind of writing you should expect to read about those women. Here's hoping I can still be cool.
                

Friends of Michael Hall and Michael Roike

My friends Michael Hall and Michael Roike were attacked last night in a random act of violence. Thankfully, they are both alive and were not injured beyond repair. Sadly, Michael Hall is in the hospital and will require surgery to repair a broken cheek bone. I'm not sure how to heal my broken heart to hear of this terrible news, but that can wait. 


To help support Michael Hall's recovery and required surgery, I have created a Facebook event to share thoughts, prayers, love and well wishes.


I have also created a PayPal donation link to help Michael pay for his hospital expenses. Feel free to donate any amount you want and pass this event to other friends of Michael's.


Donations here.


Thank you all for your love and support.


Shelby

Ode to Insomnia

I'm into it.

I'm so into it.

The riots, the renegades, the relentlessness

the rent-less nights.

I can't sleep in this heat and my dreams can't rent space 

when there's none to give.

The stale, warm air climbs into bed with me and lingers 

like the same bad joke I always tell myself 

when I see sweaters on the sale page while shopping online in the summer.

Some thoughts must have a lease protected by rent control, 

though it never seems to be the most profound ones 
that negotiate a way to stick around.

The mind can be a mean landlord.

This sigh is so deep I feel like I'm sinking.

I move quickly out of this place and try and remember my afternoon -  

stripes that match my lips and shoes

draw a friendly stare,

you hover, drop your gaze to check out my cover,

and nod, seeming to approve of my reading fare.

I don't have time to say "I like the mustache"

before you dash for the platform ahead.

Maybe next time instead.

At least then I'd have an excuse to lay here awake in my bed.