Duran on Film!

On September 2 (the 50th birthday of Keanu Reeves, which, due to the smashing text I received, became my birthday too, yeah), I had the following text exchange with My Dear Friend Nikki:

NIKKI: Are you around say about 7:30 on September 10th?
ME: Lord willing and the police permitting!*
NIKKI: We are going!
ME: Where???
NIKKI: Chelsea cinemas on 23rd
ME: To see what?
NIKKI:

DURAN DURAN!!!!!

ME: WHOA!!!!!**
ME: SWEET!!!!!
ME: We should probs get tix in advance, if we can.
NIKKI: Yeah babe.
NIKKI: The music's between us!***
ME: Reach up, gurl!!!***
ME: Did u buy or shall I?
NIKKI: I already bought em
ME: Yay! what do I owe you?
NIKKI: Your presence. That is all I require. :-)
ME: Aw! I went all swoony just then. ;-)
NIKKI: Aw shucks...Go on...
ME: <3

*I can't take any credit for that, as it's one of the bizarre sayings of my people.
**That was absolutely unrelated to the aforementioned birthday boy.

So she and I, like, TOTALLY went to see this last week. I admit to feeling a bit of trepidation, wondering just what the fuck David Lynch would do to my Wild Boys. What he did was simply superimpose sometimes freaky images over concert footage from their performance at the Mayan Theatre in L.A., back in 2011. On the bright side, 4/5 Duranies were in concert together (ANDY! WHERE ARE YOU, ANDY?! THEY NEEEEEEEEEED YOU ANDYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY!). On the weird side, David Lynch.

Now, don't all you Lynchers get your crimson crotch-less knickers in a twist; I like Twin Peaks, and its damn good coffee, as much as the next gal. But there's no denying the man's vision is...hmmm...more surreal than Dali on angel dust (and how's THAT for a yardstick?). (Mind you, I've no idea whether Dali did the stuff or not. I'm just sayin'.)

Case in point: the shit Lynch put up over the lads as they performed the 2004 single off the Astronaut album, (Reach Up For the) Sunrise. It was the year I'd gone from a difficult job to the one I'm still at now. For me, that the boys released this fucking rocking and inspirational tune the summer in which I started the new gig revved me up in ways I can't coherently express. My Dear Friend Nikki has this song wake her up every morning, it's so friggin awesome to move one's booty to. (The bits in our text exchange with the three asterisks are lyrics from the song, except for the "gurl" part.) I can even get over the fact that, in chord structure, it follows the format of verse in minor/chorus in major that The Reflex and Electric Barbarella, and probs plenty of other Duran tunes use, I heart it so much. And here's Lynch, throwing up, of all things, a motherfucking Barbie-doll type thing, in the "nude," black circles with the letter "D" covering her tits.

WTF?

I'll admit, I LOLed the first time I saw that, which was when the chorus first played. A bunch of us in the (disappointingly small) audience did. Then it repeated and I decided I had to break out my phone so I could capture this shit. And guess what? The first image I caught was:

Count 'em, y'all—that's TWO dollies dancing over John Taylor's face. But two dolls weren't enough for Lynch—oh, no:

Nick Rhodes got THREE o' them bitches all up in his grill! But that didn't quite satisfy Lynch, because they rapidly multiplied until:

Simon LeBon was overrun by a horde of the ungodly things, all reaching up for the motherfucking sunrise. Or his soul. Couldn't be certain, because soon after it was like a Barbie apocalypse and I may have fainted.

Now, if this shit had happened during, say, Girls on Film or, even more fittingly, Girl Panic, there'd have been some logic to it. But what the fuck am I thinking, expecting logic from the director in question?

ANYWAY, the music was pretty fucking fabulous (their dramatically slow intro into A View To A Kill, from which lyrics I derived the title of my book, THAT FATAL KISS, had My Dear Friend Nikki and me in raptures). In fact, it irked me to see only a few folks so much as bobbing their heads to the tunes, much less dance in their seats, as I did. It's like they were just Lynch fans, there to see his work, which is possibly the most surreal concept of the entire night.

I've been trying to find a video of this bit online and the best I could turn up was but a mere snippet. Instead, I decided to embed live concert footage which successfully conveys why My Dear Friend Nikki and I heart the tune so very much.

A Saint I Ain't...

St Andrew fresco (Kintsvisi, Georgia)

...but according to this quiz, I'm like Saint Andrew, patron saint of a country I ache to visit (Scotland), of my parents' village in Portugal, and ALSO of singers, sore throats, happy marriages, AND spinsters!

(How all those fit in with one another, I've no idea, but I'm a singer-who-wants-to-get-back-to-singing, I've been experiencing sore throats and, as things stand, I'm riding hell for leather down Spinster Road, so it does all rather seem to fit me.)

I luuuuurve taking quizzes, it's so fascinating to learn what these arbitrary responses on my part reveal about me and the inner workings of my psyche, according to some stranger whose credentials, if any, are shrouded in mystery.

:-)

Anyway, it occurs to me that, if I were to be a patron saint of stuff, it'd probably be:

• Ex-smokers and/or folks trying to quit.
• Mothers of teenagers who think they're smarter than their moms (so, like, every teenager ever).
• Lovers of Duran Duran, Depeche Mode, and Blondie.
• Folks who chuckle/snort over a solid pun.
• Peeps who obsess over other peeps to the point that they can't focus on the things they need to be doing with their lives and seem to require repeated boots to their bottoms to aid them in getting their respective (and collective, if applicable) shit together.

Or similar.

How about y'all: of what would YOU be a patron saint???

Rock Concerts ~ Aphrodisiacs from A to Z

By Matt from Orlando, USA (Black Rebel Motorcycle Club)
[CC-BY-SA-2.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0)],
via Wikimedia Commons

Rock Concerts are relatively new to me, in terms of attendance. I was very sheltered as a teen and couldn't go to a lot of the events kids typically go to, which was le major, massive suck. While my friends went to see Duran Duran or Depeche Mode playing live, I was stuck at home, watching TV.

This kooky tarot reader I knew, in my late teens, gleefully invited me to go with her to a Psychedelic Furs concert, and she had backstage passes!!! I coulda met the FURS!!!!! But even the thought of asking my mother for permission terrified me, and sneaking out (apart from being impossible to do from our two-bedroom apartment) was never an option (you can take the gal outta Catholic School, but you can't take the Catholic School outta the gal). (God knows I've tried.) Anyway, it was only in my late 20s that I attended my first rock concert: Duran Duran at Jones Beach, Long Island, NY (August 1999). It. Was. Awesome.

Y U SO SEX-AY?
Like horror movies and quarrels, when you move to the music, your body's physiological responses mimic those of sex. Case in point: A few years ago I went to see Black Rebel Motorcycle Club at Webster Hall in Manhattan. Big crowd, lotsa booties shakin'—it was a blasty-blast. I went alone, so I didn't have someone to make kissy-faces at, but I was having a good time, nonetheless. Then they played their tune Weapon of Choice. It's not a song about sex, or anything, but there was something about the driving, forward motion that seemed to flip a switch, and not just within me. While I felt this electric thrill course through me, I noticed some couples around me getting pretty touchy-feely with one another. One couple began to make out with gusto and it was all...whoa.  ::fans self at the memory::

RECIPES

• Live Rock Journal
• The Best Music Festivals to See in 2013
• Ticketmaster / Live Nation

Click here for more about rock concerts.

Writerly Things ~ Making Time

Additional Disclaimer:

Plenty of earthy language follows. Just sayin'.

Dear Reader, I'm ready to bet that at least once in your life you've uttered a sentiment similar to this one: "I'd do {insert super-groovy thing you'd love to do here} if only I had the time." Now, God knows I've experienced phases in which my every day responsibilities to my full-time jobby-job, my son, my parents, even my friends, have overwhelmed me. Everybody wants a piece of me and there's precious little to spare. Yeah, life can suck like that, sometimes.

If, like me, you also battle the demon of depression, then doing that super-groovy thing you love can seem impossible. In part, you feel like when you don't have to do a thing, you just bloody well won't do it, and that's that. You're drained, exhausted. You've got nothing left in you to give, even to yourself. You just can't do it. That is even le suckier, because then you find yourself letting your spare hour/evening/weekend piddle away and guilt floods you, because now  you can do that super-groovy thing, and what the fuck are you doing with this precious gift of time, but a whole lotta nothing???

Well, funk that noise.

First, whether you do or don't suffer from depression, those feelings of guilt are an exaggerated response to that evil little rat-bastard worming his way through your soul and mind and, as such, are pretty useless. Except for making you feel worse about yourself, and who the hell needs that? Pas moi. And pas toi, for that matter. Nobody needs that.

You know what you do need?

You need to do that super-groovy thing you love.

Why do you need to? Because it's medicinal; doing something you love can make you feel better, and then you may want to do more, and feel better still. Because you feeling better will make the people who love you feel better, and then you want to perpetuate that cycle 'cause, you know, you love them. And feeling better is as much a need as food, water, shelter, and Lindt chocolates. (OK, maybe that last one's not a need, but damn; work with me, people.) And, you know, you don't worry too much about finding time to eat, drink, and seek shelter. You do that shit tout de suite because you know you need to. So forget about trying to find time for that super-groovy thing you love; you're going to make time for it.

For me, that super-groovy thing is sex, but since that's not on the table (or on any other piece of furniture, alas), I write. I adore writing. I love my main characters. When I make time to hang out with them, as I've been managing to do more and more, of late, I'm all giddy and infatuated and, frankly, I'm so engrossed in their stories that I've no sense of time passing. The pleasure I derive from writing is just as hot as sex. There, I said it. No, I'm not high. Writing is as good as sex, for me, and if you're a writer, it may be true for you as well, and who the hell doesn't want to make time for sex???

Right; my train of thought just got a wee bit derailed, there. Pardonnez-moi.

Writers, whatever your situation, you can make time for that super-groovy writing you love. Look at your weekly planner, determine how much time you can devote to your writing, and write that jazz down in pen. (Everything's more serious when you write it in pen, ever notice that?) It doesn't have to be a lot of time, but it should be as close to every day as possible. (Ladies taking The Pill: you take that thing on some kinda regular schedule or else the system fails, amiright???) And when that precious time rolls around, you make sure your space for it is set up and just get down to it. Don't turn on the TV (unless you really, truly get into the writing flow when there's background conversation), don't log in to any social media. Just write. Write by hand, if online-goofery's too tempting to resist otherwise. I crank up my favorite tuneage and get cracking. (Duran Duran's got a way of priming my pump.) (So to speak.)

And don't worry about doing it perfectly. Like sex, the pleasure of writing doesn't spring from some flawless ideal; it comes from the sweaty physical contact, the stumbling engagement with the moment, and the breathtaking twists that come along the way to shake, rattle, and roll you. (I know you know what I'm talking about.) I read this nifty piece from Writers Digest today, and the bit about "nothing is ever wasted" really resonated with me. 'Cause it ain't. It's all beautiful. And it's all good. And anyway, we don't need perfection; what we need is to strive.

Part II: The Kid Goes to College...

...and I lose my mind. (Click here if you missed Part I, as Part II won't make much sense without it.) (It may not make much sense, regardless.)

Dad, Star, and I made it home all right (in spite of continuing thunderstorms!), had dinner with Mom, and then my Sis spent another night at chez moi to lend me some (im)moral support. We cracked open our (second) bottle of cabernet sauvignon and re-watched, for the umpteenth time, the movie Warlock (from 1989, starring still super-sexy Julian Sands and Richard E. Grant). (Hubba freaking hubba.) (I would even add wooooooof!)

I got up with Star early-ish Sunday morning, to make her some coffee before she trekked back to Brooklyn, and then I was alone. Before she left, she asked me how I was doing and, taking her meaning, I told her I'd be totally fine. And I really thought it was true. I'd felt nothing but normal through the past few days and, in spite of the nasty storms we'd encountered, took great pleasure in Balthazar's obvious excitement to be embarking on this great college adventure. I really felt OK.

I went back to bed and snored away a couple more hours, dreaming intense and crazy dreams, one of which included my Dad flying me somewhere in a small plane and telling me not to look. Of course, I looked, and he said not to panic. When I saw we were flying over a beach and about to fly out over open water, I completely freaked out. Quelle bizarre. (My Dad ain't no pilot.)

What Balthazar leaves behind...

I got out of bed for realz a little before noon and headed to the bathroom. I passed Balthy's bedroom, now nearly completely vacant and a bit of a mess with moving-away debris and stuff I'm to throw out at some undesignated point in the near future. I thought I noticed a tumbleweed roll by. Then I became completely overpowered by sobs. I spent all of Sunday alternately keening and telling myself this horrible feeling would pass, without believing it for one second. I felt like I was dying. And, God help me, I almost wanted to die, if it meant I wouldn't feel so awful, ever again.

The thing is, it's not just the reminder that Balthy's gone which set me off. It's the fact that I can either pay rent on my apartment (or on any apartment) OR pay the balance of his college fees that aren't covered by scholarships and loans and whatnot. Which means that when my lease expires at the end of September, I'm moving back into my parents' two-bedroom apartment. It's absolutely generous of them to let me, as they know why it's necessary. I love my parents, a whole hell of a lot, and I'm so grateful to them for all they've done, and continue to do, for Balthy and me. But moving back in with them at this stage in my life, living in such close quarters, after running a home of my own...gah.

Finally, I'm facing not only a midlife-crisis, but an identity crisis as well. Without having to provide such nuanced care for my kid on a daily basis, I feel all at sea. (Aha, that dream now makes sense!) I have to redefine who I am and I'm not sure I know how to be anything other than a mom anymore. Geez, I've been a mother for most of my adult life! I know who I wanted to be, before Balthazar came along. And I reckon I should go back to that head space and re-frame those dreams with the wisdom I've acquired over the years. I know this is a wonderful opportunity to recreate myself, but this parting of ways with the Me I've been since May 29, 1995...it's a stunningly painful divide.

All Sunday I felt grief-stricken, with these thoughts of loss and dreaded change roiling around in my mind and gut. I know, intellectually, that this downpour of feeling was the worst of it. As the days go by, I will adjust, I will re-frame, and I will conquer all of this ick. And I will strive, in the immortal words of my favorite band, Duran Duran, to not "...cry for yesterday; there's an ordinary world, somehow I have to find." (Man, actually listening to this song on Sunday night = big mistake.)

And I may get a tattoo. 'Cause, you know, a midlife crisis is the perfect time of life in which to do something terribly permanent which you may some day regret. Well, one's teen years are the ideal time, but that ship has long since sailed, alas...

The Dark Romance of Z...

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ZZ Top ~ Gimme All Your Lovin'
This is just a fun rock song which really doesn't require too much explanation or interpretation - just give the fellas all your lovin', already. Sheesh!

Z (Band) ~ Did I Mention It Was Huge?
I have to thank/blame My Dear Friend Kellie for this one (BTW, Kel - as of this September, we'll have known one another for 28 years, man. TWENTY-EIGHT YEARS!!!!!!!!!!). Ahem. (No, really; I'm fine.) ANYWAY, Z were Ahmet and Dweezil Zappa, and I am fairly confident that they hadn't mentioned anything to me about its size before. I have, however, duly noted the assertion and will take the matter under advisement.

Zoom In ~ Duran Duran
Well, Duran Duran started this whole Blogging from A to Z Challenge business on my blog and, by gad, they're gonna finish it! Some interpret Zoom In as being about an online game, others say it's about the paparazzi and their stalking of celebrities and that whole symbiotic relationship. I like to think it's more personal and just about being wholly focused on someone you really dig. Anyway, it's got a good beat, you can dance to it, and I am le tired, so that's all I'm gonna say about it.

And so we come to the close of the Challenge. It's been great to "meet" other bloggers and make friends, and it's also been a challenge to stick to it and not fall behind. But mostly, it's been a pleasure - hope it was for you, too.

The Dark Romance of A...

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All She Wants Is ~ Duran Duran 

I didn't think the song was about sex (which is weird for me, as I see sex in everything, practically) (which can make Open House attendance at my Kid's high school a bit awkward), I just thought the sexy, synthy bassline fit in with my Blogging from A to Z Challenge 2012 theme of songs I find passionate/darkly romantic/simply romantic/just plain dark/sexy woof! My Dear Friend Nikki noted that, in fact, all the titular "She" actually wants is more nookie (for which I can't say I blame the gal). However, I feel I must point out in rebuttal that, in the video (click on song title to view), what the chick's got hanging from her bedroom wall are shoes, which just goes to show that Duran-squared (one of my fave bands in the whole wide world) have a deeper understanding of the feminine mind than I thought. 

All Through the Night ~ Cyndi Lauper

I'm not one for sappy, sentimental ballads, but the sweet, loving longing in this tune disarms my natural defenses against schmaltz, every time I hear it. (And no, She Bop will not be putting in an appearance when we get to "S" - it'd just be too damned obvious.)

Ain't No Easy Way ~ Black Rebel Motorcycle Club (BRMC)

The opening lyrics of this song summarize my essential view of love - "It's easy to fall in love, when you fall in love, you know you're done." Amen, Brother. A-men. (Also; Peter Hayes = le woof!!!)  ::swoons::