Frock Rocker Rants

Happy Hallows Eve!

2011-10-31T12:26:00.000-07:00

Here's a little Halloween treat for you. This song is just delightful with it's dirty guitar tones and horn interludes. And Alice - always the showman!

Yes, Google Made Me Stupid, So I'm Learning to Play Wes Montgomery

2011-10-31T12:18:00.000-07:00

In recent years, discussions on the potential effects the internet is having on our brains have become somewhat common. I'm especially fond of Nicholas Carr's 2008 article Is Google Making Us Stupid, where he notes “I’m not thinking the way I used to think.” To clarify, he adds,

“Immersing myself in a book or a lengthy article used to be easy. My mind would get caught up in the narrative or the turns of the argument, and I’d spend hours strolling through long stretches of prose. That’s rarely the case anymore. Now my concentration often starts to drift after two or three pages. I get fidgety, lose the thread, begin looking for something else to do.”

I too have felt an unfortunate mental change brought on by the endless availability of non-linearly organized information the web provides. However, in addition to a lower tolerance for deep reading, I’ve noticed my ability to focus on any plan or goal that requires more than a few minutes to accomplish has also diminished.

This lack of focus frightens me mainly because I’ve begun to question my ability to develop, maintain, and actualize long range plans for my life. So, in order to re-strengthen that out of shape part of my brain, I’ve begun setting simple short term goals each month - goals that require focus and dedication beyond an hour or two to accomplish.

On of my challenges for the month of November is to finish learning the solo in Four on Six by Wes Montgomery. Check out the clip below.

As you can see, Wes Montgomery is a ripping jazz guitarist. He's also from Indianapolis, my hometown. (We people from Indiana never resist the opportunity to trumpet the successes of our natives!)

My boyfriend, also a guitar player, introduced me to this piece and it is the perfect challenge for a bluesy punk rock guitar player like me. Learning these licks will improve my accuracy as a player and add to my musical vocabulary. Moreover, while learning to play I spent little time perfecting the songs of others. Rather, I culled the information required and began writing my own songs almost immediately. While composing was always my biggest desire, I now see the value in gaining greater mastery as a player by challenging myself to play more difficult pieces.

So, I began learning Four on Six over the summer. But, as I said, I’ve had trouble focusing on things lately. So, while I’ve already learned half the solo, I’m committing to learning the rest by the end of November. The most difficult part is upon me, so this is more than a worthy challenge I think.

Life in a Northern Town

2011-06-13T16:57:00.000-07:00

I was 11 when The Dream Academy's tribute to Nick Drake, "Life in a Northern Town," hit American radio and MTV. I didn't know who Nick Drake was, and to this day, I have not examined his material in detail; but, after learning that his life and work inspired this song, and that David Gilmour co-produced the album from which the track originated, (thank you Wikipedia) I may take a closer look.

This song has always given me chills. Perhaps this is an autonomic response to the sound of wind at the start of the song; and certainly the video's montage of desolation, reinforces my "chilly" response. Whatever the cause, those chills ordered my brain to siphon off synapses for permanent storage of this song and it's melody.

Recently, those synapses were triggered and I went bumbling through the internet trash heap of information and found this SNL performance.

Upon watching, I couldn't help but notice the singer's resemblance to Billy Corgan, circa 1988.

Smashing Pumpkins, 1989 (Billy Corgan is 2nd from the right.)

While Billy Corgan has a deep body of work and The Dream Academy was a one hit wonder, I would argue that this song is better than any one that Billy Corgan has written. (I might reconsider after a fresh listen of the Gish album). Based on my belief in the quality of this song, I was certain it would have been covered by some insipid 80s derivative Killers-esque band. Instead, it seems country band Sugarland took to the task. Check out their live version below.

Now, I'm sure that when this song dropped, a 40-something music producer with Tim Burton hair and Buddy Holly glasses went crazy with anger that he didn't think to have the insipid Killers-esque band he's currently working with cover the song first. But I have to say, while I hate modern country, I'm glad it's Sugarland covering the song and not the former. At least Jennifer Nettles is old enough to remember the song; and she is a vocal powerhouse.

Still, even with Nettles' considerable vocal gifts, or perhaps because of them, the cover lacks the mournful restraint of the original. In fact, the chorus seems overly celebratory and anthemic. The original chorus is hooky, and thus easy to overdue. Still, to do so belies the sad origin of the song's inspiration; and it's that subtle feeling of sadness that made that song great. As such, my synapses shall remain committed to permanent cataloging of the Dream Academy version. Granted there was never any danger that they would jump ship. I'm a loyal broad when it comes to music!

Now, I'm off to download some Nick Drake - and thus fill in a hole in my music education. Listeners of Sugarland, and insipid Killers-esque bands, would be well advised to follow my lead.

My Very Un - Rock 'n' Roll Family

2011-04-16T11:03:00.000-07:00

Before we get too far down the rock n roll rabbit hole of my life, it should be noted that I was always a good kid. VERY un-rock 'n' roll in fact...and I still am in many ways. I've never been excessive in my behaviors and I come from a great family. Seriously, I hit the lottery when it comes to parents. They are strongly pious Midwestern folks - and they love the hell out of me...even though my life path has been quite different than the one they might have chosen for me. To be sure, they weren't "COOL" parents. This made teenage rebellion easy. I didn't have to do anything too bad to assert my independence. Playing guitar and listening to loud music was enough to piss them off at the time. More on this in later blogs. But first meet my parents: Sandy and Steve.

My mom, Sandy was never a risk taker and she has lived her life according to very traditional values. For most of my childhood, she stayed at home and shuttled me and my brother to sports practices, music lessons, and the like before eventually resuming her career as a Medical Records Administrator at a children's hospital in Indianapolis. She is truly the kindest woman I know. I've never heard her say a bad word about anyone; and her patience is her greatest strength. As a kid, I vowed to never be like her (housewifery looked so damned un-fun). As an adult, I work everyday to be a little more like her. Cliche' I know...but what are you gonna do.

My dad was a bit more of a firecracker. He and I are alike in many ways and I have always been a bit of a daddy's girl. As a young man, my dad was a scratch golfer who played on the University of Florida's golf team while simultaneously dreaming of a writer's life - all cigars and Cuba and long hair and libraries. Ultimately, the tide of his times carried him down a more traditional path and he attended law school, got married, and became a father. He has really been a wonderful dad but there were times when he struggled with both his faith and his life choices. A dark depression descended in his mid-30s and even after trudging through that difficult time, he experienced mood swings and stress-related anxiety attacks that occasionally cast an ominous shadow over the household. Anything could set him off on a bit of an angry tirade during those times - music playing too loudly, a B- on a report card, a pair of shoes not put away. To cope with this uncertain energy that occasionally hung over the house, I developed a habit of sitting in dark rooms with music blasting - my respite from those brewing storms that usually passed into a new day without incident. In more recent years, much of my dad's tensions have settled and he's become quite calm and satisfied with the outcomes of his life...even as he has watched me trudge through my own struggles.

As blessed as I am to have come from such a solid and loving family, my parents' relationship was a bit of a conundrum to me. On one hand, they followed very traditional gender roles. My dad worked while my mom handled the household management. My dad is all-man and my mom is quite petite and girlish. On the other hand, they always encouraged me to do whatever I liked - especially if it WASN'T a traditionally girlish pursuit. They embraced and encouraged my natural athleticism and assured me the proverbial glass ceiling didn't exist for me - that I could accomplish anything I wanted. Meanwhile, the gender attitudes within my hometown were very traditional. When I followed my big brother into little league baseball and peewee basketball, random strangers would occasionally say things like "girls don't play sports" or "girls shouldn't be competing with the boys." As a good athlete, I was allowed to be smart but not pretty. Some people in town assumed I was a lesbian because of my interest and aptitude for sports. In short, I received a lot of contradictory messages that related to being a girl; this undoubtedly fueled my interest in pursuing paths that challenged the barriers of what women can and should do...what they can and should say...etc. As music became a fundamental aspect of my emotional balance during stressful times, it also became the primary forum through which I felt I could explore and challenge these issues.

Might as Well JUMP!

2011-04-15T18:01:00.000-07:00


Van Halen 1984

By the time Van Halen released 1984, my brother was 14 and had begun embracing the rock music of the day. Somehow, he sneaked this album past the eyes of our very protective parents, who would probably have found the image of a baby smoking inappropriate for us. Knowing now about Eddie Van Halen's unquenchable addiction to cigarettes (he smoked through throat cancer treatments) the cover seems comically apropos. But at the time, the idea of a baby smoking was quite shocking to me. I was vehemently, aggressively obsessed with smoking and all its dangers. At the time, my favorite uncle was a smoker and every year, when The Great American Smokeout came around, I demanded he quit for a day, which he usually did, reluctantly. Unfortunately for him, I didn't stop there. I was a kid on a mission to save his precious lung tissue and I inundated him with school handouts full of pictures of black lungs and diseased hearts. As far as I was concerned, smoking was the scariest thing in the world and it needed to be eradicated. Needless to say, this image of a BABY smoking managed to intrigue me with fright. I had to give it a listen...and goddamn those songs! They were...they still are...so damned good! Jump! Panama. I'll Wait. This was the first album I'd heard that made me want more. There were only nine songs. NINE! Why not 10 or even 12 I wondered. Just MORE!

Once I'd been sucked in by those songs, and that scary smoking baby, I turned my attention to the band's images on the back of the album.

There was David Lee Roth bathed in shadow, with shirt off, face slightly down, eyes up in direct gaze, long windblown hair - I'd never seen a guy with such long hair or a gaze so penetrating except for maybe in mug shots on the evening news. He was almost as scary as the smoking baby. And, I liked it...in spite of my god-fearing, vanilla, professional class "long hair is bad" upbringing...or maybe because of it, I liked it.

Soon, we would have MTV, and it was all downhill from there.

Heaven's On Fire

2011-03-09T14:37:00.000-08:00

Do you remember the "Here are the doors, here is the steeple, open the doors and here are the people" hand/chant church game???

Here is an example if you don't, or if you had parents who spared you the childhood church-going experience.

When I was about 9, un-cool make-up free Kiss released "Heaven's on Fire."

I'd never liked going to church and was in the nascent stages of agnosticism, when I first heard this song. As such, the juxtaposition of raging flames against my gauzy white robed image of heavenly boredom was titillating. I knew my mother and the other church-loving ladies of Sunday would not approve of this song, a fact confirmed when I decided to change up the sing songy "Here is the Church" rhyme by having the people belt into the chorus of "Heaven's on Fire" as soon as "the doors" were opened. My creative mash-up was met with looks of disapproval when first shared with my sweet as peach pie Sunday School teacher Mrs. Jones. But, when I took my mash-up to the secular playground at Harney Elementary School, my KISS worshipping church goer phalanges were a mild comic success.

Clearly a little satan with your gospel was a good thing. Elvis had proved that years before. But I learned this lesson by mixing bad era KISS with a church rhyme.

Doe a Deer, a Female Deer

2011-03-09T10:46:00.000-08:00

The Soundtrack to my Mom's Favorite Movie

Deborah Harry may have been my first inspirational LADY of rock. But Julie Andrews was a close second.

The Sound of Music was released in 1965, my mom's senior year of high school. It is probably her all-time favorite movie. As such, when NBC began a 20 year stint of annual airings of an edited for TV version of the classic in 1979, my mother made a point to tune in almost every year. I was probably 6 or 7, and already a lover of music, when I first joined her for this annual viewing.

In my Norman Rockwell childhood living room, where a warm wood fire flamed under a stone hearth as snow swirled into violent front yard drifts, I watched as Maria charmed mean old Captain Von Trapp while teaching his children to sing. A new obsession was born - one spearheaded by the repetitive spinning of my mother's already worn copy of the movie's soundtrack, which I anxiously pulled from the dusty record collection shelf the next day. For weeks, I listened to and sang along with my favorite Sounds of Music while imagining I was Liesl or Maria.

Today, my own music may contain little evidence of my Julie Andrews influences. But if you happen into my home while I'm in the kitchen baking muffins or whipping up a little chicken marsala, you might hear me spontaneously bust into a rendition of My Favorite Things or Do - Re - Mi. My cat will be looking disapprovingly down from his cabinet perch and my boyfriend will be humoring me in all of my notationally imperfect joy.

Fab Five Freddy Told Me Everybody's Fly

2011-02-03T17:39:00.000-08:00

The Jacket for the Blondie Single "Rapture"

My brother is four years older than I am; and he was responsible for much of my early exposure to the pop music of the day. When he was 9 or 10 he began collecting vinyl singles, which I ultimately loved more than he did. Blondie's "Rapture" was one of the "records" he brought home from the 3D, a KMart like superstore that dotted the Midwest landscape in the early 1980s. I was six at the time and I couldn't get enough of that song. I loved the rap. I loved the horn solo at the end. I loved the bass line and the overall groove. As far as I was concerned, this was the perfect song. In fact, this is the song that prompted my first grade self to march into the kitchen where my mother was whipping up a meatloaf, and announce, "Mom, when I grow up, I wanna be a singer, just like Blondie."

I don't recall my mother's response. I was only six so I'm sure proclamations about my future adult life were fairly common. But it's interesting that I remember the situation in which I asserted this particular desire. Under those bright kitchen lights, where my stay-at-home, dinner making, cookie baking, model of traditional housewifery mother did some of her best work - that's where I announced my desire to be like Deborah Harry - the pouty, ex-playboy bunny, with a come-hither squint, a cat-like wail, and a reputation for boinking her boyfriend in the bathroom at CBGBs.

Just six - and already a flare for ironic juxtapose - or so I like to think.

It All Started with The Fab Four

2011-02-02T12:28:00.000-08:00

MY VERY FIRST FAVORITE ALBUM

Perhaps it's way too cliche to cite the Beatles as an influence in the pursuit of a rock 'n' roll life. But this greatest hits album, released in 1966, and the only Beatles album in my parents' collection, was my very favorite from the ages 2-5.

Almost every afternoon, my older brother would cue this up on the turntable and together we sat, side by side, in rocking chairs and, literally rocked to the harmonies of classics like Drive My Car and Day Tripper.

Nowhere Man was my favorite track on the album. It really got my toddler toes tapping. My brother probably hated it but I would sing along to the chorus, sometimes quite obnoxiously: "He's a real nowhere man / Sitting in his nowhere land / Making all his nowhere plans for nobody." Pretty heavy stuff for someone still required to take a nap - but then I didn't understand the subtle comment on directionless nihilism contained within the song's verbage. I just loved the sing-songy repetitive rhyme of nowhere phrases and the relatively dark, descending note pattern of the hook's melody and harmony. The nasal delivery delighted me too.  Perhaps this is my adult projection.  But I do know I loved the way that song sounded; and I would listen to it on repeat, a habit I still have when a song delights me.

Interestingly, the original cover for this album was quite controversial.  It featured the band wearing butcher smocks and draped in pieces of raw meat, and blood covered body parts from plastic baby dolls. That photo was more in line with the band's dark sense of humor than the banal images usually associated with their releases; and according to Paul McCartney it was "a comment on the war."  But, ultimately the label deemed the cover too shocking and it was replaced with the placid group shot above.

I stared at that shot for minutes at a time (remember, I was 3).   I realize this is random, but I was drawn to the trunk probably because my parents had a trunk similar to the one in the picture and, for some reason, this confirmed the group's cool in my child's eye.   Moreover, I liked the idea of sitting in a trunk the way Paul is in the picture.

After I got over my obsession with the trunk, I carefully examined the individual members and ranked them in order of preference. John was my 3rd favorite Beatle.  I liked his smug expression and crossed arms, but his shoes and socks bothered me (shallow, I know).   And George was always last, probably the result of his placement in the photo more than some attribute that failed to meet my pre-school standards. But, I could never decide whether Paul or Ringo was my favorite.  Compared to the others, Ringo looked small and childlike and his name was fun to say. Ringo! Riiiing-oooo!  But Paul felt familiar, like the older boys in my neighborhood.

Years later, in 1983, when Paul collaborated with Michael Jackson on the song Say, Say, Say, he temporarily moved in to a solid first place in my complex Beatle ranking system, which I continue to update from time to time. (In a twist of irony, George is currently my favorite Beatle).  But, it was 1978; and Thriller hadn't been released yet; and I just couldn't decide - Ringo or Paul. I knew I loved Nowhere Man and all his nowhere plans though; and I knew I loved sitting side by side with my big brother in those bark cloth covered rockers listening to that album on repeat. The seeds were sewn for my future rock 'n' roll pursuits; and I was barely out of diapers.

New Year, New Direction!

2011-01-31T18:07:00.000-08:00

I'm one of those millions of kids who dreamed of becoming a rock star. I'm one of the thousands who actually pursued it. And, like most of them, I failed.

Henceforth, Frock Rocker Rants shall be an online collection of memories and a reflection on my personal pursuit of the rock star dream. It may end up entirely too self-indulgent - an uninteresting and un-relatable exercise in self-back-scratchery.

But, I hope not.

Median Housing Prices, Median Income, and what $350,000 will get you!

2010-05-27T19:37:00.000-07:00

I've begun shopping for a condo. This is not a fun process in greater Los Angeles mainly because I know I could be buying a giant house for the same price I'll be paying for a 2 bdrm condo. And for the record, Los Angeles isn't that cool...so it's not really worth the difference. In fact, I fantasize regularly about moving to cooler locales. As such, I love nothing more than to look at real estate in other areas of the country. Below are some price comparisons.

I'll be using $350,000 as a price point for comparison (give or take $10,0000). And I will be selecting homes that based on pics appear desirable to ME. I like homes with character. Travertine tile can suck it! As such, in many cases, I chose a home that looked a little cooler even when one that was bigger and newer was available for the same price.

So...with that...here we go! Oh...I'll also be adding median household income and median house/condo value data for all cities...just for fun. (All this data was collected from http://www.city-data.com, with the exception of Sherman Oaks, which was collected from http://money.cnn.com).

Beverly Hills
Estimated median household income in 2008: $93,327
Estimated median house or condo value in 2008: $2,590,563

Asking price for these side by side lots: $350,000

Pasadena, CA
Estimated median household income in 2008: $57,796
Estimated median house or condo value in 2008: $652,400

You can get this 3 bdrm 1 bath house 1155 sq. feet in a less desirable area of town which is listed at $349,900.

And you'll have to buy your own appliances after closing! And I have no idea whether that space is for the range or the fridge. Probably the range. But then where does the fridge go??

Sherman Oaks, CA
Median Household Income is $57,680
Median Home Price is $601,424

$360,000 for this 2 bdrm 1 1/2 bath townhouse, 921 square feet. Location is decent but in a generic concrete jungle suburbia sorta way. Hey it's the legendary San Fernando Valley. I actually went and saw this place. Nice enough...but kind of SMALL!!!

And lots of money went into the kitchen, which is fully upgraded with all the cliche crap that people like these days (granite countertops, stainless steel appliances).

Indianapolis, IN
Estimated median household income in 2008: $43,652
Estimated median house or condo value in 2008: $125,500

For $345,000 you can get this 4 bdrm 3 bath 5,142 square foot house in the highly desirable historic district of Woodruff Place, which was the city's first suburb, established in 1870. This house was actually built in 1865 and it has all the exposed wood details common to Victorian homes. Now I'd have to tear down that wallpaper...but this place is just gorgeous; and it has one of those wrap around porches that I LOVE!

Austin, TX
Estimated median household income in 2008: $51,372
Estimated median house or condo value in 2008: $210,600

Not so familiar with different areas of Austin...but the city is beautiful. You can have this very cute 2 bdrm 2bth 1180 square foot bungalow for $349,000. This place is full of character and I love it...in pictures anyway!

French doors. YAY! And I gotta admit the bright color on the walls is working for me! The floors look like they are probably original and are quite stunning as well.

New Orleans
Estimated median household income in 2008: $37,751
Estimated median house or condo value in 2008: $194,300

Here's the outside of this historic Victorian 3 bdrm 2 bath, 1844 square foot bungalow that lists for $349,000. I'm not sure about the location. But it's over 100 years old. The inside is a little over updated for my tastes...but it's still pretty cute.

This is the kitchen. I'm a sucker for exposed brick. And while the kitchen is a little too cookie cutter for my tastes...it's certainly usable.

Portland, OR
Estimated median household income in 2008: $50,979
Estimated median house or condo value in 2008: $310,900

This very cool mid-century modern ranch style home 3 bdrm, 2.5 baths and 1820 square feet is listed for 289,000...and it has loads and loads mid century charm...

...including decade appropriate cabinetry and an original pink range, which I love! And that fireplace is rad!

Chicago, IL
Estimated median household income in 2008: $46,911
Estimated median house or condo value in 2008: $287,500

For 349,900, you could have a 2 bdrm 1 1/2 bath condo in this converted church/school, which is kind of rad. The kitchen updates on this one are BAD...but it has exposed pipes and a loft layout and lots of exposed brick, so there's something to work with.

Memphis, TN
Estimated median household income in 2008: $37,207
Estimated median house or condo value in 2008: $99,900

I actually quite like Memphis. And what a musical history it has. You can have this 3 bedroom, 2 bath bungalow, built in 1931 for $299,900.

Again original floors that look sweet! Unfortunately the original wood trim has been painted white.

New York City
Estimated median household income in 2008: $51,116
Estimated median house or condo value in 2008: $543,900

For $350,000, you can get this 1 bdrm, 1 bath 629 square foot condo. It looks alright but I am not familiar with the location.

Fargo, ND
Estimated median household income in 2008: $41,181
Estimated median house or condo value in 2008: $147,200

For $328,000 you can get this 2 bdrm, 2 bath 1939 square foot condo that is the upstairs of one of an old town building. Built in 1917, the place is completely updated with all the generic fixings...but it's also got tons of exposed brick, and tall ceilings with exposed pipes. This is probably the single coolest place I've found so far.

American Classics

2010-05-26T12:03:00.000-07:00

I'm on a mid-century kick lately. Last night I spent an inordinate amount of time online looking at classic cars for sale. They just don't make 'em like they used to.

This 1956 Ford Crown Victoria Glass Top is a perfect example. This is an award-winning car and apparently the glass top is a rare and highly sought after feature amongst classic car enthusiasts. I just love the matching two tone interior and exterior and the chrome trim and the white walled tires - it's just gorgeous. Unfortunately, a classic in this condition costs more than a house.

Here's a more affordable option. This 1956 Ford Sunliner features two toned shades of aqua (my favorite color) and the same chrome trim and white walled tires at just 2/5 of the price of the glass top. This is still more than I'll be able to afford anytime soon. But I love it so so much! And a girl can dream RIGHT!!!

Here's the interior...like the one above, it's two-toned...and so stylish. Can you imagine getting it on in the backseat of one of these??? Or, what about taking this on a cross country venture. That would be a dream come true for little ole me!

Click the links for the

Elvis Dances Like a Girl and Shirley Manson Scowls Like a Man

2010-05-21T17:34:00.000-07:00

I feel very fortunate to have come into adulthood in the 90's in part because there were some pretty kickass women finding success in the traditionally male dominated world of rock. To be fair, I've always loved male driven rock for its cock-centric focus. I mean, I'm a heterosexual woman, and seeing such male-ness spotlighted is undeniably appealing. But, I've never bought into the idea that rock music and culture are innately male in form. In fact, far from strident reinforcement of male/female roles, rock's most interesting artistic contribution to modern society has been it's rebellion against traditional gender codes. This goes back to Elvis's Ed Sullivan performance, when the network refused to show Elvis from the waist down because of his inappropriate dance style. His fearless display of solo dancing, an activity seen as feminine in the 50s, felt threatening to a society built on strict gender-based behavioral codes. Elvis's desire to be watched as he engaged in such gender-bending behavior, only further feminized him...and threatened the very behavioral codes on which 50's culture relied.

Even at it's most masculine, rock 'n' roll has always been a little more feminine than is usually suggested in analytical texts. Having said that, it has usually been men who enjoyed the most success as performers, while women, aside from the a few chosen ones like Janis Joplin and Grace Slick, were viewed as novelty acts. However, in the 90's, it really felt like women were starting to gain legitimacy as performers. The Riotgrrl movement receives lots of press in feminist circles. But the 90's also saw a slew of female rockers transcend such "movements" and find grand scale success. This was important because movements are usually marginalized. Moreover, Riotgrrl was largely a regional movement...one I learned of only years later. As such, I feel little more than mild kinship with the movement. But the women that follow mattered to those of us who weren't fortunate enough to grow up in hotbeds of feminist subversion.

Shirley Manson - Garbage. My personal favorite performer from the 90's by a long long shot. Her style wasn't that iconic but her presence was equal parts menacing and enticing. True she had a powerhouse band of boys behind her. But she was the real star when all was said and done. She continues to growl and prowl with the best of them.

Courtney Love - I know she has a lot of enemies. And I know she's always relied on outside help to write songs...whether she was stealing Kurt Cobain's riffs, or "co-writing" with Billy Corgan. But she has a great big rock 'n' roll personality that rivals any guy that ever played; and anybody who tells you that doesn't matter or shouldn't matter is full of shit.

Gwen Stefani - to be honest, I've never been a big fan of Gwen's voice. But her pairing of tomboyish fashion and energy with extremely feminine hair and makeup created a symbolic link between girlishness and strength and expanded the conceptual understanding of femininity; and that was inspiring and important.

Liz Phair - "Everytime I see your face I think of things unpure unchaste. I want to fuck you like a dog, I'll take you home and make you like." Gotta love Liz for that lyric alone. She was a little wisp of a thing that talked like a lot lizard and dared to write an entire album offering a female counterpoint to the Rolling Stones Exile on Main Street. This is subversion at its finest.

PJ Harvey - she has become the mark against which every dark haired girl who plays rock guitar with blues influences gets compared...because you know we're all alike. But hey, if we're gonna get compared to someone, we couldn't ask for anyone better.

Tina Turner - Ain't no one who's rocked harder or for longer than Tina Turner - male or female.

First I Rock. Then I Golf.

2010-05-13T11:52:00.000-07:00

I like to play golf. Some people probably think golf is the most un-rocker activity one could engage in. But really rock 'n' roll and golf are both boy's clubs. And I've never met a boy's club that I didn't try to infiltrate. So, while it's true you probably won't see Courtney Love on the golf course anytime soon...I consider my love of the game a mini-rebellion against the rocker cliche and an example of my lifelong interest in all things boys. Besides, I'm not the only rocker who loves golf. Alice Cooper plays too. He even wrote a book about it.

Equal to my love of the game itself, is my love for golf fashion...especially vintage golf fashion. Old photos of boys in knickers and newsboy caps, and sweaters and ties, like the one below, rock my world.

Moreover, Arnold Palmer, the Tiger Woods of his day both on and off the course, was hot in a boisterous, Hunter S. Thompson sorta way. Lucky for him, it wasn't a profitable move for ladies to talk about their famous conquests publically.

But aside from all that male eye candy enjoyment, vintage golf fashion for women is equally fun to examine. According to Lizzie Bramlett's "Women's Golf Fashion: a Peak into the Past," early in the game's history, women didn't play golf but country clubs functioned as social meeting places where women sought to look there best. As women began to play the game, fashion evolved to suit the game's athleticism while maintaining visual appeal. The following are examples from the early to mid 20th century. Check out the crisp white uniformity of the dress, the hat, and the gloves!

And this plaid skirt paired with bobby socks below is a fun treat.

I think I want to have a vintage golf party. How fun would that be???!!! Everyone in plaid and argyle and knickers and bobby socks? And newsboy hats? Sadly, it that might appear vaguely Hollywood hipster. But I might still do it! My birthday is next month. Whaddaya think???

Dreaming of Jeannie's Kitchen

2010-05-12T13:18:00.000-07:00

When I'm not busy with one of the million things I do to distract myself from my failed music career, I'm at home, watching House Hunters and wishing I knew how to whip up beef bouillon. In truth, I'm not much of a cook. But I love kitchens! Specifically, I have a mild obsession with mid-century kitchen design. While almost every lemming featured on the aforementioned House Hunters ooohs and ahhhs at the stainless steel appliances, dark wood cabinets and granite countertops of kitchens like the one below...I find such design banal...and boring!

I would far prefer a space that was unique and cool...and full of character...like the kitchen featured on the cover of a recent issue of Atomic Ranch Magazine.

I also like the unique mix of stainless steel appliances and mid-century modern inspired cabinets of the kitchen below.

Lastly, who can resist turquoise and red! Not ME!!! Love Love LOVE IT!!!

Give me funky, quirky, and colorful over those modern day earth tone cliches any day!

I Have Left the Building - Temporarily Anyway

2010-04-08T14:48:00.000-07:00

Let's start this word juggernaut off with the simple irrefutable fact of my current life...I am uninspired and officially creatively bored...not only with my own various ventures but the ventures of everyone else too. No offense to those of you still fully engaged with your various creative passions. I'm sure someone will find your song/screenplay/webseries/blog/clothes/jewelry/graphic design/artwork incredible and inspiring and awesome. But it will probably look derivative and lame to me. This has everything to do with me and nothing to do with you. I am quite simply so over all of it. In my current mindset, I equate artistic expression with a manifestation of self-absorption and self-importance...and I need a break. Everything brought to you by so-called (and usually self-described) artists (including myself), overwhelms me in how ultimately unnecessary and unimportant it seems to the world as a whole. I recognize this as an over-generalized reaction to my difficulty making peace with the vast chasm between commerce and art...and to living in Los Angeles, a place that can easily trick the artist into equating mass-marketability with success in their work. But the result is the same...creative burnout.

For this reason...following the fulfillment of current commitments I will be taking a break from all of my own creative ventures. In place of all the time and effort put forth in the maintenance and pursuit of my various music and writing projects, I'm going to search for a teaching job; and I'm going to play golf and spend my leisure time with the people I care about.

When I regain the belief in the value of my own artistic expression, I will get back to creative business. But right now, I feel my talents could be put to more valuable use than trying to intellectually deconstruct the world in words and song.

Funny or Die's Presidential Reunion

2010-03-03T12:41:00.000-08:00

Funny or Die's Presidential Reunion! Featuring Will Ferrell, Dana Carvey, Jim Carrey, and Chevy Chase (my VERY favorite) reprising the presidents past and back to haunt Barack as he grumbles about the Consumer Financial Protection Agency.

Funny or Die's Presidential Reunion from Will Ferrell

Ms. Swift, Autotune and the Narcissism Epidemic

2010-02-23T10:20:00.000-08:00

I didn't watch the Grammy's last night because it saddens me to see the visceral collapse of the music industry; and I was unsurprised upon hearing how badly Taylor Swift performed. However, I suffer from schadenfreude, which finally got the best of me this afternoon when I sought out the above clip. Of course I was delighted to see that she was...how shall I say it...goddamn mother fucking awful! Swift's inability to sing her way out of a paper bag, coupled with her clear lack of awareness about just how badly she sings, is sickly fascinating to me. "How can this girl not know she is a sucky singer??" I first wondered after seeing her perform on Saturday Night Live in January, 2009 - where after finishing her second song with nary a note in tune, she cracked a wide grin and hopped up and down with the excitement of victory. She was also awful at the 2008 Country Music Awards where she mumble-sings in monotone while modeling a beautiful gown for her fellow blonde republicans and their cowboy-hatted beaus. Such horrific displays of performative shame lead me to think the narcissism epidemic may be in effect with Ms. Swift.

The narcissism epidemic was first noticed by college professors in the early 2000s when Generation Me students (those born in 1982 and later) began expecting their grades would be elevated based on effort alone. This was deemed a symptom of the self-esteem focused parenting style of the 90's...i.e. the "everyone deserves a ribbon" even if they don't mentality. As a result, professors reported their students had little awareness of their strengths and weaknesses and had not developed methods to compensate for any skill disparities. This lack of awareness was accompanied by an over-inflated sense of accomplishment and a belief that they would and should be rewarded and acknowledged for everything they tried regardless of the relative quality of their output...as long as their effort was marked by panache.

Taylor Swift most certainly demonstrates this epidemic at least in part. She is a catchy songwriter, with a particularly good instinct for lyrics with broad relatability; and she most certainly has a girl-next-door kind of charisma that attracts people's interest. These are great strengths. But she is completely unaware of just how badly she represents those strengths when she performs those songs herself. In fact, such outward ignorance of her clear vocal weakness allows for questions about her strengths. "Did she really write those songs?" I wonder after hearing such poor delivery of them. Now, I won't speculate on any sense of entitlement she might feel to the various accolades she's received because that would require a more intimate knowledge of her personality than I have. But I will say those accolades act to reinforce the belief that sometimes plagues members Generation Me...that mediocrity will be rewarded. Unfortunately, mediocrity is still mediocre, no matter how unapologetically it is delivered; and in the long run mediocrity is unlikely to leave an indelible mark on the world regardless of how many gold statues it collects. Rather the outcome is more likely to resemble the image of Shelley's "Ozymandias."

OZYMANDIAS
By: Percy Blythe Shelley

I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed.
And on the pedestal these words appear:
"My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!"
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.

Jonathan Haidt's TEDTalk on the Difference Between Liberals and Conservatives

2010-02-18T08:50:00.000-08:00

I grew up in the smack dab middle of the pro-life, pro-gun, pro-God Midwest. In fact, I grew up in a county with fewer democrats than palm trees; and my dad, a lifelong republican, spent 25+ years of his career in elected offices. In addition to my dad’s professional party affiliation, my parents are active social conservatives who converted to Catholicism in their late 50’s and proceeded to spend two years of Fridays "praying" outside abortion clinics. While they stray from the traditional conservative platform on gun control, and they are displeased with the work of George W. Bush and his crony Dick Cheney, who my father likens to the devil, they do believe in low taxes, small government, intelligent design, preventing stem cell research, and that God made marriage for a man and a woman – the very values the left is quick to denigrate as "stupid," “selfish,” "regressive" and "small-minded."

Meanwhile, the right is just as likely to call the left “selfish,” “Godless,” “anti-American,” “baby killers.” Each side is equally convinced of their “rightness” in assessing what’s best for the country as a whole; and each is equally convinced that those who disagree with them are hell-bent on running this country into the ground. While the left and the right have always been at odds with each other, it seems the level of angry self-righteousness in partisan politics has risen in recent years to a level that’s not only distasteful but counter-productive.

Perhaps this is the result of a culture turned on by contention. Even Obama’s victory on a wave of “work-togetherness” rhetoric hasn’t been able to steamroll what has become a seemingly inherent love of hatred. In short we LOVE to hate even more than we love to be right…or at least more than we love to DO right. Both sides would rather stubbornly refuse to work with the party in power than allow for the possibility that they may have valid points to consider. With partisan media pundits, the louder someone hates, the louder we get to hate back. A show of respect for someone with a different belief has come to seem deferential and undesirable.

As long as this verbal volleyball match continues, nothing will be accomplished and while each side will blame the other, the truth is that both are at fault because both are engaged in a self-righteous refusal to let the other side be right about anything…and neither side is right about everything. But, when we absolutely, unequivocally BELIEVE we are right, that someone else is wrong…we are at an impasse…and when that disagreement turns angry and judgmental as it has in recent years, how do we overcome that impasse?

Recently, I came across this TEDTalk by Jonathan Haidt on the moral roots of liberals and conservatives, which addresses the moral matrix in which both ends of the continuum are locked. I think it's worth a few minutes of your time; while some will find themselves trying to defend their own judgments about conservatives or liberals as valid in today's world, I think Haidt's offers information that can help us re-approach each other in ways that are both more respectful and also more effective.

Jonathon Haidt on the Differences Between Liberals and Conservatives

The Problem of Heidi Montag

2010-01-22T18:23:00.000-08:00

This week, Heidi Montag revealed her new look to the world. After a whopping ten plastic surgeries, Montag has altered her slightly quirky face into that of the transsexual wife of an Orange County republican.

Almost as soon as these pictures broke, a collective cry rang out. She was such a pretty girl!! Why would she do this!!??? What is wrong with her??!! What kind of doctor would conduct such a surgery??!! Where are her parents??!! What kind of message is she sending to her young fans??!! It's all wrong wrong wrong!! Except that on some level it's not.

Heidi Montag is a walking metaphor for the inconsistent message women and girls receive about their appearance and its relationship to their worth in our culture. While girls are regularly TOLD that their intelligence, humor, and competence are valued, women of proven intelligence and humor continue to be subjected to commentary about their appearance. Whether it's Hillary Clinton, who endured far more physical scrutiny than Obama during the 2008 primaries, including one piece by Republican blogger Emily Miller that focused on her cankles, or Tina Fey, who's impressive list of comedic accomplishments receive secondary coverage to her nerd chic appeal, the message is clear. Intelligence, wit, and competence are not enough for a woman's physical appearance to avoid scrutiny.

Meanwhile, the only industries where women have consistently made significantly more money than their male counterparts are the modeling industry and the sex industry, both of which expect their women to meet certain appearance ideals but neither of which requires mental facility. In spite of lip service to the contrary, money has a quantifiable relationship to value and power in our culture. The fact that we choose to pay women far more on average for being supremely beautiful and for acting freakishly sexual than we pay them for being competent intellectually is not lost on girls and young women.

In effect, Heidi Montag is telling her young female fans the unfortunate truth that they already instinctively know - their looks have at least as much value as their personal qualities; and she is as much a victim as she is a metaphor for this confusing message. This is why she failed to see the irony in espousing the message "beauty's really within," during her post-op interview with Good Morning America's Juju Chang (http://tinyurl.com/y8pnddb). After all, our culture gives excessive lip service to the "beauty is within" mantra while outwardly placing far more importance on external beauty. Therefore, what's wrong with her embodying the same hypocrisy?

Some have suggested the problem lies not in this hypocritical message. Rather, Montag has been labeled an addict. Perhaps she is. But this is not singly important. Such over-indulgence is bound to happen in a culture that places a high value on physical appearance while offering a myriad of plastic surgery options. Moreover, our culture is largely accepting of plastic surgery as a means to improve self-esteem (a further admission of the importance of looks). According to a Consumer Attitudes Survey conducted in 2008, 56% of women approve of cosmetic surgery and 31% would consider having it themselves. To be sure, Montag was not heavily criticized after her first breast augmentation and nose job. This was seen as within the realm of acceptable tweaking. But when does that tweaking become unacceptable? It's only when someone radically changes their appearance in the way that Montag has that we cry foul. But, in a culture with questionable integrity regarding the qualities it claims to value most in women, can we really be that surprised by someone like Heidi Montag? Perhaps the greater crime is the perpetuation of the myth that looks don't matter when their value is so obvious.

Knowing the Why: The Importance of Clear Purpose in the Face of Artistic Commercialization

2010-01-09T11:05:00.000-08:00

Ok artists of the world...here's what I want to know: What is your point? What is the specific unifying purpose behind your work? Why should anyone care about it? Whether you are a musician, an actor, a writer, a comedian, or a painter...you need to have something to say that extends beyond a self-indulgent look-at-me-and-how-good-I-am-at-what-I-do mentality if you expect to be truly relevant and/or find lasting success. And now, as the relationship between commerce and art evolves in the face of technology, there is an even greater need for us artists to develop a clear and specific sense of purpose that we can articulate with confidence. Without it we may lose the very creative flexibility and freedom we so value.

Perhaps the need for purpose sounds obvious to some. But, sometimes what is obvious in theory is absent or at least under-developed in practice. For example, a musician might say something like, "I want to write great songs that really move people to think." A writer might say "I want to write stories that give voice to voiceless characters." A comedian might say, "I want to be edgy and make people laugh at their own discomfort." These may sound like valid purposes...but they aren't specific enough. If a musician wishes to make people think...she must have a clear idea of what she wants them to think about. A writer who wants to give voice to the voiceless must have a sense not only of whose voice she seeks to embody but also of the value in doing so. And a comedian who wishes to make people laugh at their own discomfort should have a specific idea she wants to communicate through that discomfort.

Many artists resist the notion of specificity of purpose because they see it as an artistic failure in the face of commerce; and they believe they must be fully un-tethered in order to create successfully. However, this is a misunderstanding of specificity, which is not synonymous with limitation. Rather, specificity is the unification of our varying artistic interests into a definable singular vision. A great variety of things may inform, inspire, and impact our work. But we MUST be able to synthesize those influences into a succinct and focused vision. Without that specificity, our audience becomes difficult to define, our work becomes unruly and vague and our overall success cannot be calibrated.

Take for example, Lady Gaga. In her work, she primarily seems interested in challenging and examining notions of celebrity. What is it? Is it real or a created construct? How does it relate to artistic expression? How can it be useful? How is it destructive? What does it say about us as a culture? Now, there are many aspects to Lady Gaga’s music, performance, and overall presence. She has an outrageous sense of fashion. Her performance is marked by suicide and murder imagery. She has a strong interest in issues of gender and in gay iconography. But these different aspects act primarily as tools to comment on celebrity…which is the driving purpose behind her work.

Comic Sarah Silverman is another example. Silverman is obviously inspired by a wide variety of political, racial, religious, and gender-based issues. But her work is primarily interested in pointing out and challenging hypocrisy in prejudicial thinking. Her ironic endorsement of various forms of bigotry, which creates discomfort in her audience, forces that audience to consider their own prejudices. Race jokes become not about race…but about the ridiculousness of prejudice…and this is what she wants her audience laughing at and thinking about.

There is no doubt that modern commerce has impacted the life and work of the artist. But our answer to this as artists cannot be a stubborn refusal to acknowledge commerce. Instead, we must understand that a focused, specific artistic vision is NOT a failure of art in the face of commerce. Rather, it is the best way to keep control of our creativity and to build and maintain artistic relevance. For if we aren’t sure what it is we’re doing, and why we are doing...if we can’t articulate it clearly and confidently, someone in marketing will; and that is when art fails in the face of commerce.

Summer '96

2009-08-04T16:28:00.000-07:00

Words: hip-roofed, decant, summer, housecoat, footrub, ashtray, lilac, interruption, insurance, platform

This was written in fall, 2000 without the 30 minute limit. It was the early inspiration for my 10 in 30 poems.

Summer '96

The summer we lived in the
Hip-roofed house by the highway,
I worked two jobs, one as a temp
For an insurance company and
One as a dancer, so that
He could finish recording
His second CD without the
Interruption of employment.

Once after a particularly
Rough night at my platform
Job, I returned home to find him
Sitting, feet-up, and watching
Dateline re-runs while decanting
Brandy from flask to glass and
Flicking ashes over the couch I bought.

"Since when did you perceive
Permission to sit around like
My grandmother at the old folks
Home, waiting in her housecoat
For her next feeding or footrub?"
I demanded, hoping for a fight
Or a fuck or both.

He squinted at me like the lilac
Eyed hero of an action flick
As he crushed his cigarette
Into the ashtray his niece made
For him in her art class and said
"Come here baby." And to his
Embrace I succumbed.

Meanwhile, others are playing
Basketball at the 24-hour Y on 38th,
Or dancing to disco covers
At that club on College, or
Planning their shopping lists
During midnight bouts of insomnia,
While waiting for their lovers
To roll over and kiss them
On the back of their neck before
Drifting off to sleep again.

Purple Haze

2009-02-27T16:03:00.001-08:00

There are no public displays of purple
In my parent’s home.
Too loud for the décor taste
Of midwestern consevatives who drive
Astrovans and Rivieras.
Purple IS the bad boy pin-up and
Stretch jean rebellion of
Their teenaged daughter
Who rains funk rock royalty in
Boas and butt-less pants and
Refracts light through flyaway locks
Of glam slam bottom thumpers.
Purple is wah-wah innovation and
Screaming boots with colorless tops
Stretched over unimagined nipples
On a cold Hollywood night.
It offends the meek and the chic alike.
It is a bad hangover,
Or the hidden shade of republican lingerie.

15 Things Every Woman Wishes Her Man Knew

2009-02-03T21:09:00.001-08:00

1.) A little dirty talk in the bedroom is awesome … but at some point you need to shut the fuck up or you are going to talk us right out of an orgasm.

2.) If I tell you to spank me … I expect you to spank me hard enough that it stings a little and I expect the sound to be full, not tinny. (Sorry, I'm a musician).

3.) I'd rather make out for an hour than have you go down on me for an hour. I mean, seriously, if you've been down there an hour to no avail … you've failed.

4.) Good conversation is a greater turn-on than any gift you could dream of buying.

5.) Compliments that we can discern by looking in the mirror are not as effective as those we cannot.

6.) Don't ever begin a sexual encounter with the line "Are you ready for some big dick in you?" You will be joked about for years and years and years to come. Trust me.

7.) If you want us to come to your house, ask us explicitly. Don't hint around in an effort to make us ask. We might totally be up for coming over and getting naked … but we won't invite ourselves … and if we're not yet ready to come over, we'll be flattered that you asked … and probably go home and masturbate while fantasizing about the next time you ask us over.

8.) We know you want to have rock star sex … whatever your version of that is. We are happy to fuck you in front of mirrors and in hotels and in bar bathrooms and to be flipped into eight different porn positions every once in awhile … but just know that getting flipped into too many different positions absolutely diminishes our ability to reach orgasm. For that, you must find the angle and work it consistently until mission accomplished. When you flip positions you always lose the angle. ALWAYS! And too many ups and downs in the female orgasm cycle without actually reaching orgasm will prevent orgasm altogether. As such, your version of rock star sex … is not our version or rock star sex. Just know this.

9.) Girls who "LOOOOOOVE" to give blowjobs and rarely want to have sex do not have orgasms often or, possibly, ever.

10.) If you prevent us from touching our clits during sex we will dump you.

11.) Pull our hair. Why else do you think we grow it?

12.) A mechanically perfect lay that lacks sensuality is not better than a mechanically imperfect lay that is very sensual. However, a mechanically perfect lay is always better than a quick shooter … no matter how sensual the quick shooter is.

13.) On the same note as 12, there is no excuse for habitual quick shooting. We are not THAT hot. You are not THAT turned on by us. Habitual quick shooting means you are an inconsiderate, insensitive jackass. While your response to this may be "Who cares, I'm only there for me," we all know that secretly you are hyper-sensitive to the suggestion that you are a bad lay … which you are. In fact you're the worst kind of bad lay. Fix it, whatever it takes, or expect to be repeatedly and viciously dumped.

14.) Just because your ex-girlfriend found it unbelievably hot when you wore a Pluto mask does not mean we will find it hot. However, we might be totally into Darth Vader capes and light sabers. Learn to improvise.

15.) Make us laugh or you won't be around long.

Axl Rose...speaker of the central Indiana experience.

2008-04-25T10:34:00.001-07:00

Axl Rose grew up 30 minutes north of my hometown. Thus, perhaps it's un-ironic that his lyrics relate so well to the stories of people I've known.

He lost his mind today
He left it out back on the highway
I-65

It was a late November day when Eric L. drove the thirty miles north up I-65 to Purdue University where he desperately hoped to win back his ex-girlfriend, Sarah. As one can imagine, Sarah stayed safely locked behind steel door as Eric, in the midst of “I can’t live without you depression,” begged, kicked, and threatened suicide.

After being run off by some of Sarah’s male friends, Eric, now drunk and enraged, returned to Lebanon where he first procured a shotgun from the Wal-Mart at the edge of town…and then shells from the Big Lots across the street. Suicide on the brain, he drove to a cornfield outside of town and began chugging a bottle of Wild Turkey. Just as he was loading the shell meant for his temple, the cops cruised by, noticed his oddly parked car and generally fucked up his plans in the immediate.

Not in the mood to deal with any kind of authority, Eric cranked his engine and flew out of that field with cops in full pursuit. The cops chased Eric through backroad Boone County, past pig farms, and cornfields, and abandoned schools and random country marts. At some point, Eric hit a patch of railroad tracks at 100 mph and crashed his car into a cornfield. The cops closed in. Eric, hoping to be gunned down in a haze of police bullets aimed his shotgun right at them. "Stay the fuck away, or I swear I'll fucking shoot YOU!"

Now, had Eric been in a different town or the son of a different family, his actions most surely would have gotten him shot...killed...dead just like he wanted. But Eric was not so lucky. Instead officer Rex H., a friend of his father's, approached with the hope of talking some sense. Eric shot him in the arm...full on begging them to end it. Instead the cops arrested him and he was sent him to prison.

While in prison, Eric was diagnosed manic-depressive. "Halleluia," cried his mother, Susan. "I've been asking doctors since he was five for help." After his release from prison, Eric walked about town glassy eyed, perfectly postured, heavily medicated. It was only a matter of time…but his parents were hopeful. In fact, his mother was so hopeful that she believed that Eric’s prison buddy should live with them after his release. “People who’ve been in prison, need help and support,” she would say when people questioned her judgment.

Michael moved in with Eric’s parents the day he was released from prison. Michael got a job with Eric’s construction crew. Everything was fine until Michael broke into the home of Eric’s grandmother, Ruby. Robbery may have been the motive…but when Ruby surprised Michael, he beat her nearly to death…and went back to prison.

A few years later, Eric finally succeeded in accomplishing his long held goal. He went quietly...pills and liquor...and carbon monoxide. No chance for failure. No need for a note. By then everyone knew it had only been matter of time.

I imagine that each day Eric lived, his only comfort was the thought that suicide was always an option...until finally it was his only option..."finally," he thought, "finally." That's what I'd think anyways.

Here I am, I'm you're rocket queen
I might be a little young but honey I ain't naïve.

Like Rabbit of famed John Updike novels, Scott S. was a big fucking shining star! Not only was he the perfect stereotype of the small town high school athlete with his his solid B minus average and membership in National Honor Society but also he volunteered his precious star time to various church organizations. A star who licked Jesus's asshole on the weekends...could he be any more perfect, the town wondered aloud?

So, imagine the orgiastic excitement when, after 4 years as a star college athlete at a nearby university, Scott returned to Lebanon to coach basketball and, in his spare time, teach math to high school students. One of our own heroes had returned to nurture new heroes for the future. The town glittered with pride. Several girls, who as 5th and 6th graders had witnessed Scott's heroics on the court, glittered too.

In the summer prior to Scott's first year as a teacher, he enjoyed his small town trophy status by buying liquor for teenaged parties populated mainly by kids soon to be his students. Two of his favorite party mates Julie and Alicia, 15 and 16, respectively, were the chosen ones. To their delight, they were invited to meet Scott in a most intimate fashion. Although the affair with the younger girl was short-lived, thus securing her the prideful reputation as a teacher fucking slut, Scott carried on an affair with the older girl until her dad found out...18 months later.

Fortunately for Scott, the town was in love with him and couldn't bear to let him go down in flames. He was allowed to quietly resign without a public shaming...and two years later, he married the girl in question. An inevitable divorce followed. No longer able to teach, and too drunk on his small town fame to leave, Scott frames houses and fucks 20-something divorcees who bow at his rock star cock with reverence. “Oh Scott” they probably stammer, “I remember when you played football in high school…me and my friends used to stare at your ass in those tight pants…and now here I am…here we are…you…me…that tight quarterback ass in my hand. Who’d have ever imagined?”

I used to love her
But I had to kill her...again

It was 3 a.m. one morning in 1990, when a startled trucker called Lebanon Police to report blood all over the checkout counter at the Holiday Inn. When police arrived they found Vicki H., the night desk clerk dead. Next to her body was a golf-putter covered in blood.

In the 1970's, Jacob R. was the married father of a hot perky titted adopted daughter. Everyone knew he fucked her but no one ever did anything about it. I mean she was adopted...so it wasn't quite as bad...not bad enough to butt in and save a child...but certainly gossip worthy.

One night after yet another argument with his daughter regarding her repeated attempts to run away, she threatened to call the police...this according to the neighbor who overheard the argument. Instead, the girl was never seen again. Jacob didn't frantically search for her..."she just up and ran away again, I guess," he said, while dragging on a marlboro and sipping a Bud.

Due to her history of such attempts, the police accepted this as a logical explanation and the case was dropped. Two years later, Jacob's house mysteriously burnt down, killing his wife. It happened in the 10 minutes after he left the house to visit the Dairy Queen for a Dilly Bar.

Accelerant was found in the basement, arson was suspected but couldn't be proven.
Jacob was Vicky H's boyfriend at the time of her clubbing. He was the prime suspect in her murder...the only suspect...he did it. It's a quietly known fact amongst the police officers. But again, Jacob, the perfect criminal, had left only enough evidence to point to him but not enough to convict him.

The case remains unsolved today due to that convenient lack of evidence. Jacob continues to walk about town a free man. He might drink coffee at Titus' Donut Shop on Sunday mornings while reading the paper, play pool at Boone's Pub with college students home for the weekend, or shoot the shit with travelers who exit I-65 to stop at the convenience store, where he works.

Once as drifting 16 year-olds on our way to yet another concert, my friend Staci and I stopped at his convenience store...she wanted smokes, I wanted chocolate. "Are you 18?" asked Jacob of Staci, when she asked for her pack of Marlboro's. "Yeah," she lied. "Well, you girls sure are pretty enough to be 18," he slickered, eyes on her tits as he took her $5 and pushed over the cigs." "Whatever," we said, eyes rolling...as we turned, taut teenage asses in too short skirts and heels...his dick erecting as we sauntered off.

Welcome to the Jungle, Baby.

Frock Rocker Rants - the background and disclaimer

2008-01-22T21:10:00.000-08:00

So, let's just get one thing out of the way...I am a huge fucking cliche. Songs have been written about me...I have been immortalized in film...I am every daddy's nightmare. I am the girl who packed her car and drove west for the shining lights of Hollywood to become a fucking rock star. That's right I'm mama's fallen angel who after growing up tall and growing up right headed west 'cause she thought a change would do her good. That was almost seven years ago...and it's high time I started writing about it...if for no other reason than to make sense of what has become of my life. I should warn you...I have a standard issue musician mouth...in essence I speak in trailer hooker tongue. If this offends you...go read a fucking blog about gardening or debutante balls...both subjects I personally find deeply interesting...but only if I can talk about how fucking beautiful the rhododendrons look lining the walk way of hand laid stone. Anyways, more to follow about gardening...but for now...quick background for the purpose of perspective.

I'm the daughter of a midwestern judge. My mother is the kindest person I know. I have an older brother, who is now also a judge. It is my brother's fault that I pursued rock stardom. When I began to express an interest in playing guitar at 14, my brother said...and I quote "you'll never get a guitar...and if you do...you'll never learn to play...and if you do learn to play...you'll never play in a band." I was an obstinate child. Such doubt as my brother expressed sealed my future as a musician in a family full of lawyers. Had my brother never uttered such words, I'm certain I would be a high powered divorce attorney raking in bigtime Chicago money...my father would be proud...my brother would be proud...my mother would still pray for me. As is, they all pray for me...and they still want me to go to law school. I took the LSAT to whet their appetite...I scored a 167. Then, instead of applying, I joined a punk band. I'm still trying to decide whether this was the smartest or the dumbest decision I've ever made.