Tag Archives: dancing


It is hard to decide when someone you are calling on someone for sex or for company. Well, it is hard for me since I assume every man I am with prefers the former. After Abe, my boyfriend of two years, broke up with me a few days before his cousin’s wedding, and a few weeks after agreeing to move in with me, I had officially given up. Maybe it wasn’t official. There was still Huck, who I fell head over heels for at writing school for the week residency in June.

In between, I had several small love affairs with European men while in France. In Washington, I had a few one night stands, one that was a little more, mostly with younger men … less charming men. When you are a single woman and you really harness spontaneity, the short-lived spark of a moment and the sweet surrender of pleasure … you don’t go so hard for the hunt of a mate. I am sure when my body starts aging I will feel differently, but right now I feel as if I have unlocked the secret of being a man.

hollywood stones

The Hollywood Stones, the Rolling Stones cover band, I followed and adored through the outskirts of Los Angeles county, were playing in Orange County. Abe lived in Orange County and I thought it a good opportunity to see him again. We kissed goodbye in spring, before I left for France and spent the summer in Washington. Last thing I heard from him was a text: “I read your blog. I am so glad you had so much time to write all those things down!”

I wrote back, “Oh, you must have read about Huck.” He didn’t respond and I didn’t press. The man disappears when its convenient and only ever really reaches out on holidays or when he visits his grandfather’s grave.

My fear with reconnecting with him in person was that I would fall back in love with him and resume a love affair that would go absolutely nowhere. Old habits die hard.

Down to Orange County I went with my two roommates, Gary and Frank. We still were on a coke binge of some kind, there was plenty left or plenty more bought … I wasn’t sure. We did several lines and arrived to Harvey’s Steakhouse in Huntington Beach blitzed, riding in on the white pony. Frank wanted to order a steak and some nice liquor. That is part of who he is. Gary was just along for the ride, he couldn’t find a job, had no money and didn’t talk very much. There was a balance between Frank and Gary- they both enjoyed each other’s company while I was away at work but when it came to serious issues like finances and forgotten children, I was the one they spoke to.

At Harvey’s, it was my first time seeing the band since I was kicked out of an outdoor concert in Sherman Oaks for dancing too wildly and (supposedly) not wearing any underwear, which is total bullshit by the way. I made contact with the band via Facebook. They already recognized me from dancing on the Queen Mary in Long Beach, at the Brixton in Redondo Beach and definitely when I was asked to leave by police at the Earth Day concert in Sherman Oaks. The band promised me a t-shirt and gift bag the next time I saw them in concert, afterall,  they found my dancing to be “inspirational”. I should state here many people think I am on drugs when I dance, the truth is no one can really dance like I do drunk or on drugs. It would be physically impossible to dance that long and hard. From the first note to the last, I keep going.  When I dance, it is with every drop of heart and soul. Most people love it, some people hate it. That seems to be the case with most things though …

Halloween Hollywood Stones 2

I was nervous because I really wanted to this cover band to like me, we hadn’t ever spoken in person. Once, I spoke to the lead guitarist after their St. Patrick’s Day performance on the Queen Mary. “Are you in a relationship?” I asked.

“Of course. Aren’t you?”

“No, he couldn’t commit,” I said.

“Well, I have heard that one before,” he said.

“Midnight Rambler, please?” I always ask.

“We only had til midnight. Not this time,” he said.

bill wyman
Since that night in April, they have closed with Midnight Rambler to every show I have ever attended. Is it because of my request that night? I don’t really know. Once I hear the dripping, heavy harmonica, I scream. The women on the dance floor flop around as if Dick Swagger’s (that is the name of the lead singer) lips are blowing directly on the globular bud tucked away safe between their legs. Even the least attractive drunk finds the rhythm of sex during that song, and in the beat we share that rhythm together. Once in awhile I will look up and see all the women surrounding me in the dark, as the drum and guitar catch up to the clacking, bluesy voice steaming out of the harmonica. It is a beautiful sight.

Dick Swagger
This particular night, I did not invite Michael to join me. Michael was the boy I was sexually involved with. He was on my mind, but I didn’t want to be confused with him and Abe in the same place, at the same time. And I didn’t want to make it awkward for them. I will freely admit I keep the men I loved on a string partly because I don’t know how to give up on love and partly because it eases the ache of rejection. It always seems nicer to stay in touch- nicer and more confusing.

We arrived, our pupils large and black. I was in a red and black tutu Frank bought me with a Freddy Krueger hat Alia set on fire and stomped on to make more authentic. I also had the token Freddy glove. I was running out of money and had to stick with what I knew. Put on some glitter knee high socks, converse and a ripped ‘Nightmare on Elm Street’ shirt and voila! StarFire failsafe. Girl Kreuger. (I love “Nightmare on Elm Street”)

Halloween Hollywood Stones 1

The band came on with the music before Abe arrived. Abe is always late. He is also always stoned. I dragged Frank to the floor and it only took a few seconds before other people stormed up to join us, like it was the beginning of a revolution. That is usually the case. It only takes one. The problem was the cocaine was making my heart palpitate. It was difficult dancing, because I when I go, I go hard. I thought if hard core bands like Led Zeppelin or the Stones can go on and perform shows high on coke, I should be able to dance for a couple hours.  After the first song, I could feel myself get dizzy and wondered if I would pass out. I kept going. No matter what my body is telling me, no matter how hard my feet and thighs are screaming “Stop!” or my lungs and heart burn, the music keeps me in motion.

Frank was mixing his cocaine with xanax, and after a few days that makes him funny. In this case, it started when I refused to dance with him to ‘Time is on My Side’. I shook him off. “I never dance with other people,” I said. He looked hurt, then offended, then indignant. The xanax was bringing out that aggression. He would dance close, or get close to the guitarist and nod his head heavily or block out some other schmuck trying to dance with me. The guitarist would look at him, then at me, trying to piece together what to do.

cocaine lover

“Ya’ll got … cocaine eyes …” I sang to him. I flicked my fingers over my eyes with the line. He doesn’t remember. That is the problem with doing too many drugs, they make you act like an asshole but rob you of the memory. You can’t learn, reflect or empathize. You let something else take over your body for a period of time. A monster maybe. A machine. Something that wasn’t Frank. He stopped every once in awhile on the dance floor to hold his head, shake and scream. Men pulled their girlfriends away. Xanax only ever makes me blackout, but that night it sucked my friend’s soul away.

coke clown
Abe arrived and once I saw him I felt my smile. I rushed over to him in between sets and greeted him.

“I know I am late,” he said.

“$8 cover charge,” the man at the front said.

“There is a cover?” he said, annoyed.

“Well, you should have come early and got in on our table. That is the price you pay for being tardy,” I said.

He stretched out his eyes just before stretching out his wallet and pulled out a $20 bill he never worked for. He got the change back and I asked him to dance with me. He wouldn’t. He still claims the band hates him … which makes no sense. “I haven’t been really doing anything, except discovering the secrets of the universe,” he said. Floating in a cloud of THC and family money can make you believe anything about yourself.

At Harvey’s, the band is afforded three sets and the third is always the best because they throw in all my favorites “Sympathy for the Devil”, “Miss You”, once “I’ve Got the Blues”, “19th Nervous Breakdown”, “Monkey Man”, “Can’t You Hear Me Knockin’”. It is the bluesier set. They also have a saxophonist. He is an older guy, we spoke outside during a break.

“We really appreciate seeing someone who shares the same level of enthusiasm in the music we have.”

I blushed. “To dance to a live saxophone on ‘Can’t You Hear Me Knockin’ is a dream come true. Thank you!”

A guy came out of the club and looked me up and down, “Whatever you do in life, dress like that every day.”

“Thanks,” I said flatly.

“You must have had a lot of drinks to dance like that,” he said.

“Not really. I am their groupie,” I said.

“Well, I am a groper,” he returned. I snarled my upper lip and turned away. Charmed.

The saxophonist smiled. He was cool, in his 50s, wearing down from the late nights and lungs full for brass. He leaned against a post outside the corner Orange County steakhouse and smiled away from me.

“Do you smoke?” I asked.

“Not cigarettes,” he said. I smiled and nodded. I was still shy with the band. It wasn’t because I wanted anything from them, certainly not sex. The majority of the band is over the age  of 45. I just wanted (and still want) them to like me.

Before the third set, one of the guitarists approached me with a gift bag. “We designed the shirt just for you,” he said. I blushed, though you couldn’t notice from how red my face was. The cocaine softened in my system, and I was drinking one goblet of water after another.

I pulled out a red tank top with a completely lace back. There was a card and a pin. I thanked him and loosely hugged him, worried my sweat might stick to his. “You should come and hang out with us in between sets,” he said.

“I don’t want to bother you. I know you are in the zone and everything.”

“Don’t feel that way, please. Feel free to stop by for a conversation and talk to us.”

Halloween Hollywood Stones
When the third set came around, Gary was hanging by the table or outside with Abe chatting. Abe would never come back on the dance floor. Frank did come back in, sipping something out of a small glass, “They are talking about probiotics and bananas out there,” he said. I laughed but kept far enough away to watch him, as he teetered against the wall in a black fog. He wouldn’t remember any of this in the morning.

I wouldn’t leave the music for Gary or Abe outside. I wouldn’t leave the music with the waves of nausea and exhaustion bursting from my overworked, pumping heart. The saxophonist was done for the night and blocked Frank from getting too close to me on the dance floor, first by the restrooms then closer to the bar with his single drink. I danced to the last note and the lead guitarist saw me after the show. “Get home safe tonight,” he said, glancing towards Frank. I nodded and smiled, brushing my hand against the vintage, velvet sleeve.

I said goodbye to Abe, who I barely saw that night and then tried to drive all three of us home. Frank passed out in the passenger side and I told Gary I was going to throw up. “Can you drive?” I asked.

“Sure, I just don’t know where I am going,” he said.

“Follow the navigation on my phone,” I said, cueing it up for him.

In the back seat, I fell down on a cloud of cocaine, and several glasses of water with no food in my stomach. I felt the car come to a start and heard Gary whine, “I don’t know where I am going.”

In my motherly voice, “Do you need me to take over?” I asked.

“Sorry, [StarFire]” he said.

I got in the driver’s seat and consulted the navigation to find out we were in Long Beach, that is the opposite direction of Glendale. Gary wasn’t too bright. “I am going to throw up so can you find a plastic bag back there?” I asked.

I heard him rustle and then give up after 20 seconds.

“No plastic bag?” I asked.

“No, sorry,” he said.

So I pulled over and vomited up about two liters of water. Frank woke up out of his deep snooze and rubbed my back, but I was in no mood. I shook him off and puked once inside the car just to make a statement. Yeah it was my car, so what kind of statement I don’t know. Then I drove us home. “Two grown men in the car and no one can help me get home …” I said. Gary apologized again, but Frank was back to snoring.

The next morning, I woke up Frank with two cups of tea and sat on the floor of his bedroom.

“Do you remember last night?” I asked.

“I um … remember some of it but most it is lost, I have to be honest,” he said.

“You have to stop taking the xanax,” I said. “It was bad last night. Really bad.”

“I could say some things about you but I am going to hold back,” he said. It hurt to have the talk so he threw that out once then twice. “There are some things I could say about you, but I am not going to right now.”

“Ok, this is about you and you were out of control last night. I was embarrassed. You need to stop,” I said, staring at him.

“I heard your peace,” he said, sipping his tea. “Should I expect tea every morning from you?” His smile crept up between blowing the steam off the top.

What resonated with Frank was my refusal to slow dance with him. “I have just never seen anyone go that ga–ga over a cover band. I mean, they aren’t the Stones, they are a cover band!”

My friend Jerry was over for this particular conversation and said, “When [StarFire] dances, she dances with the band.”

“You’re telling me,” Frank said, giggling over his disappointment. “You can go see them again, but I am done with that band. I don’t need to see that again.”

“Great,” I said, “No man ever wants to just dance with me to the Stones.”

“Honey, not like that,” he said, before taking a long, sip of coffee.


A few days later I recovered most of my things from a storage unit in Orange County. Abe helped me, and as he gathered my things out of his garage and packed up my car, I flirted with him. I stood close and tried to kiss him on the mouth. “What is wrong with you?” he asked.

“I am just so God damn attracted to you,” I said, grabbing his hips.

He was awkward about those kind of things. He laughed and pulled away, regrouped and verbally planned out how to pack up my car. I leaned against the hood of my car and propped my leg up. He laughed and walked away. He smelled of cigarettes and laundry detergent. He was exactly the same. Nothing had changed in him.

When we got to my storage unit, we packed up both our cars to drive back to Glendale (which was over an hour in rush hour traffic).  I thought about whether or not I wanted to have sex with him. I thought about what it would mean. Would I go back to mooning over him? False hope about a relationship? False comfort? I really didn’t want to go back. The hardest part of seeing him again was resisting the urge to fall back in love, and it took me like a stranglehold. He was nice, he was attractive, awkward, calm, all the things I loved about him though I knew he had nothing more to give me.  To this day, sitting here in my bedroom with another man’s smell on my pillows and blanket, it still makes me sad.

I thought about Michael. I knew I made love to him twice and he was inexperienced enough to be vulnerable about my other partners. If I had sex with Abe would I have to tell him? Was I capable of leaving him for Abe? God, how could I live with myself?.

Those pristine blue eyes under the shadows of his severe eyebrows brought me in again. “We cast a spell on each other,” he said once.

We got back to the apartment in Glendale and unloaded most of my stuff from storage. Abe smoked out Gary and the two seemed to get along well. They were both in a nonsense world with minimal responsibility. That said, they both helped me when they could. Gary would walk the dogs and do the dishes. Abe unpacked my things and set up an air mattress my boss loaned me.

Abe and Gary
When the lights went out and the house outside my bedroom door settled, I wondered if I would have sex with Abe again. I wanted to, but it felt like the wrong thing to do. “If we had sex, I am afraid you would lose your mind again,” he said. I laughed. “Me too.”

It is hard loving someone partly with your soul, but completely with your body. I laid down and he played some music on my computer. I asked him to rub my back and I fell asleep with his warm hands on my back and legs. In the middle of the night, I woke up to him climbing out of bed with me, still fully clothed. “I have to go home now,” he whispered.

“Stay,” I groaned, grasping at the air.

“I can’t,” he said. And that was the last I saw of him.


It wasn’t long before I was back in Frank’s closet, snorting a few more lines. As long as it was there, the three of us, Gary, Frank and me, kept going, playing music, sweating, roaming, circling in and out like a merry-go-round.

Somewhere earlier in the day, another ping rung out from my phone. It was from Huck again: “Miss you.. im comi gng to lax in december. I cant waieoq.” I screamed and dropped my phone again. I looked down at my black phone on the floor frozen. Then I screamed again.

“What …?” Frank asked. I read him the message. It was unlike Huck to misspell words, so I assumed he was drunk. Later I found out it was written by his girlfriend at the time. After reading the words aloud, Frank leaned back, “Tell him Super Shuttle is $13.”

I laughed and picked up my phone. “What … the .. fuck?”

“Seriously, if you bring him back here during residency, I will knock his block off. And I am serious,” he said.

“I would never … ever … TOUCH him again!” I said.

“Ok,” he said sing-song. “Just don’t bring him back here.”


I hadn’t heard much from Michael, he was still at a cool distance. I texted him: “What are you doing tonight?”

“Hanging out with my best friend [StarFire]” he wrote.

A few lines of fairy dust were swept into a small baggie with a make-shift straw I kept sticking out of the top. Instead of laying down lines on a mirror or surface, I would just snort directly out of the bag. There wasn’t much, not to justify what a junkie I can be. It is just a moment. A dance in time. It would be over soon enough and I would be back to work.

“Should I ask where you are going?” Frank asked.

“No,” I said finishing up the line he cut for me before rushing out the door. “Dogs are walked and fed. See you in the morning.”


I showed up to Michael’s house in Pasadena. He was the only tenant on the bottom floor. His room had a bed, a massage chair, a computer and a dresser, all in black or white decor. He greeted me as I walked in, “So I have champagne, chocolate soy ice cream, mango soy ice cream, wine and vegan almond squares.”

“Oh my, you have been reading my blog,” I said, delighted. I sat down eyeing the champagne first.

“But first I would like to take you out to dinner. Anywhere you would like to go,” he said, smiling.

“That’s ok, you don’t have to do that,” I said, popping open the champagne myself.

He slowly nodded, trying to understand what that meant. “I am not very hungry,” I continued, opening my little baggie and taking a whiff of dust. I felt his hands on my shoulder, he was short but I loved the way he touched me. The weight of his hands fell around my shoulders, and I felt his breath on the back of my neck as I snorted. Snorting cocaine excites men, which I never understood since it seems like such dirty business.

cocaine street art

When I was done, I felt the heat of his body pull away from behind. “You wanna go smoke a cigarette?” he asked. I smiled and nodded. Outside, there was a fire pit of sorts, surrounded by old, rotten couches and a stand alone fridge, stocked with beer. Plenty of young men occupied the house, but I rarely saw them. It was dark and cold, but the fire was going and the hot tobacco warmed me up.

“So I got a message from Huck, remember Huck from my blog? He wrote me ‘Miss you. I am coming to LAX in December. Can’t wait to see you.’ I mean, what the fuck? Who does this? Who breaks someone’s heart and then pulls strings afterward? I wouldn’t do that. If I hurt someone as much as he hurt me, I wouldn’t go near them again just for sex or whatever he wants. Its not fair.”

“You know what you sound like? Someone who had their heart broken,” Michael said.

I blew out some steam and then allowed him to light a second cigarette. “You know there aren’t other girls like you?” he said. “You know that, right?” I hung my head heavily to the side. It is a beautiful thing to say but I didn’t know how to respond without sounding arrogant or self-deprecating.

“You are a beautiful woman, you are a great writer, I love those blogs. I don’t read very much but it is easy for me to read your writing. That says a lot. It keeps me interested. You have a, you know, good head on your shoulders. And you are great in bed. What more do you need?” he said.

“I would like to be funny,” I said, smiling through the burn and the darkness. “You are,” he said.

I knew the kid was holding me up high. The blog is a monster because I refine my life and bring out my best and worst moments to be a character. There is a human under the witty banter, the drugs, the adventures and the sex. The human is always less appealing than the character. He would find out who I was, eventually, but for that moment in time I wanted to be his fantasy. Those are always the best parts of my relationships. The beginnings.

We spent the entire night making love. Sex would last a few minutes; the groaning, the sweat, the sloppy ecstasy before a quick end. Then it would start back up all over again. In between sessions, we would talk. I was out of coke but forgot about it. There was no come down, there was no aggravation, no rustle for the last few drops of white powder.  He made me laugh and my withdrawal vanished.

“Here, let me play some music for you,” he said, pulling up his Pandora.

“The Diva channel? Really, Michael. I don’t know what straight guy has Celine Dion and Cher as a channel,” I said.

“Why not?” he squeaked. We played some music and talked about more music. He knew more about 80s music and culture than I did, which still baffles me since he was born in 1989. He must have spent a lot of time alone as a child.

“You are cold as ice, willing to sacrifice our love …” he sang.

“You know who sings that?” I asked.

“Yeah, Foreigner.”

“No, really.”

“Look it up.”

I got on his computer at the desk parallel to his bed and pulled up ‘Cold as Ice’ by the Chipmunks. “See? It wasn’t Foreigner, it was the Chipmunks.” I pressed play and made him listen to Alvin, Simon and Theodore harmonize. He laughed with his whole body. I watched him lay in bed with a perfect upper torso, black hair trailing down his stomach to his plump cock, and the laughter tighten around the muscles in his abdomen. He had a high pitched laugh, but it wasn’t feminine. It sounded like the squealing of tires and made me feel brilliant every time I cracked a joke. It also created that bubbling sensation in my sternum, the possibility of love or what I know of love.

“Suggested videos from the Chipmunks is ‘West Side Story’” I said, clicking over to a medley of songs. “Maria”, “When You’re a Jet”, “America”, “Cool” all played, and I sang them almost word for word.


“How do you know all the words?” he asked.

“I am a fan,” I said, shrugging my shoulders.

“You want to see my impression of ‘West Side Story’? Eh, my name is Tony and Chino killed me. Oh…” he said in fast, low thug voice. I cackled. He does quick and silly impressions of people and movies. It is one of my favorite things about him.

“Uh oh, looks like someone is drunk Facebooking,” I said, rolling over his computer. “‘I wish people wouldn’t tell me how to raise my kid, go to hell!’ is her status update. Let’s review the events of the night and see what brought her there. Two hours ago ‘What a beautiful night, I am blessed!’ Uh oh, only two hours ago? What happened? One hour ago “Why does my life have to be so difficult? Because of the men I choose to share it with. When will I learn?’ Ok, so in the last two hours she had a bad conversation with the father of her child, I guess, and chased it with a bottle of wine. I love it. I am a pro at drinking and Facebooking.”

“And we love you for it,” he said. His soft brown eyes always looked glazed over. All the years I had known Michael it never occurred to me we would have a chemistry. You would think there would be a tingle, a moment of recognition, a hint of some kind that this person could make you fly with a kiss.

“I will get a dog. A dog with three legs is like … cool. A dog with two legs is like, ooooh, I really love that dog. A dog with no legs and just wheels is heaven!” he said. “That’s my goal, to get a dog with no legs,” he said smiling. Sometimes he would sit up on his bed and face me, as I nursed the bottle of champagne and then the bottle of red from his desk. Other times he laid back. We had made love four times, but were both wide awake.

dog with legs 0.jpg

“Tell me your deepest, darkest secret,” he said.


“Just to do it, why not?” he asked.

“Because I am having a good time. I don’t want to change the tone. Do you have a secret you want to share?” I asked.

“Not really,” he said. I crawled on the bed to fit in the nook of his arm. When we laid side by side, I could feel encased by him. I could look up to him and feel smaller, pocketed, loved the way I was used to. Standing up, I felt like the Jolly Green Giant.

“Did I tell you about the time I tried to kill myself?” he asked.

“No,” I said, softly.

“I feel like I did. How they had to pump my stomach with charcoal,” he continued.

“I feel like I would have remembered that. What led up to that decision?”

“I was 15 and my Mom had this snowglobe. My grandmother gave it to her and she just died. I accidentally broke it. When she found out she screamed ‘I hate you!’”

“That’s terrible … but is that all?” I said. “Not to take anything away from you but … was that all that happened?”

“Yeah. That was it,” he said. I realized then how fragile he was. “My childhood wasn’t great. Kids were mean to me. I let them be mean to me but it still sucked. One time I let them set me on fire.”

“Oh my God,” I said again. “Did you get badly burned?”

“Yeah, that was horrible. I had to pull my sweatshirt over my head,” he said. I realized why he was attracted to me, why he loved the blog so much. He thought we connected because we suffered in the same way, but we all suffer, and all in different ways.

“How were your parents?” I asked.

“Well, my father died. Did I tell you that? I thought I did,” he said.

“No, stop saying that you told me these things because it makes me feel like I am not paying attention. I would remember stuff like suicide and dead father.”

“Yeah, he died when I was 19,” he said.

“I am sorry.”

“No big deal, he was barely around at that point,” he said, lightly. The eyes made sense now; the loss, the burning desire to rescue paraplegic dogs and fuck me. I put my arm over his chest. “My grandfather died, his funeral is next weekend so I will be out of town.”

“Oh, I am sorry about that, too,” I said.

“We weren’t close. No big deal.”

“It might be good to go back and settle business before you move back to Milwaukee,” I said.

“Maybe I won’t move back,” he said.

“Oh,” I said. In fact, I can’t remember what I said but I felt my heart stop and a chill freeze my blood. He was going to stay because of me. “It sounds like you have a pretty solid plan though.”

“Not really. I just thought I could go back there for a change, but I can do all the things I was going to do over there here.”

“What about school? You were going to be a vet tech?”

“Field animal observation. I can do that anywhere. I was looking at Glendale Community College. I can get free tuition in California,” he said.

“Well, you know my feelings on Milwaukee so, I think that would be a better life for you to stay. Just make sure you are doing it for the right reasons,” I said.

“I will,” he sighed, holding me closer, blowing into my rustled head of hair.

It was around this time I crawled down and gave him a blow job- not because I was in love but because I knew it would impress him. I also knew it wouldn’t take too long. Afterward, with the moaning and praise, he said, “I never knew it could be this way. That was the best head I’ve ever had.”

“Well, you are only 23,” I said.

“No, sex with you is on some other level. I can’t explain it. I never have had sex like this before,” he said.

“Well, I am probably more experienced than the other girls you have been with. That’s all.”

“When you touch me, there is an electricity,” he said, covering his face with his forearm. His skin was so milky white in contrast to his black hair. He almost looked like a sculpture of a Roman soldier I admired in the courtyards of Paris- with the prominent nose, the robust physique, the marble-like complexion. I wiped my mouth and crawled back into the crevice of his arm singing ‘I Feel Pretty’. We agreed to turn on “West Side Story” and fell asleep to it. I woke up to Maria crying over Tony and muttered in a morning voice, “She was so good in this movie …”

“Yeah” he sighed, holding me up for a morning kiss. We made love a few more times before agreeing to go to breakfast.

The only place I could think to go was the vegan place in Los Feliz  Abe and I used to regularly go called Green Leaves. It is all vegan, vegan pancakes with vegan chicken and vegan eggs. We came in together and the usual waiter recognized me, looked at Michael and smiled. I shamelessly sat down with a head of hair that was tossed in a hundred different directions during a hundred different positions.

“I am not going to push you, but I want you to know at some point I am going to ask to be in a relationship with you. I want you to be my girlfriend. It doesn’t have to be now, but I want to talk to you about it later,” he said.

I nodded, “Ok.”

“I am not sure how you are feeling but I have feelings for you,” he said.

“I am having feelings too, but I am not looking for a relationship right now. Things have been going really well with this whole casual approach thing I am doing. It is hard to be in a relationship with someone like me,” I said. “Let’s just leave it at ‘We can do whatever we want.’”

“Well, I would like to try. Like I said, let that sit. We can talk about it later,” he said, casually picking up a menu. And just like that, my heart was dragged back under by a 23-year-old from Milwaukee. His mother was going to kill me.

Michael at green Leaves

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Making Bad Decisions I Don’t Regret

You might ask yourself, where was I thinking of Abe in all of this? Probably if you are Abe, reading this.

A few days into Cannes, after his birthday (on which I called international), I waited for him to email me or pop on-line. He never did.

I emailed him: “Am I still in your life?”

There was never a response.

So when you think of how easily I hopped European territories, remember that the love I said goodbye to was completely silent. The saddest part of all was it didn’t change things much.

The morning after “Roberto”, I was lost in him. I realized I had forgotten to leave my card or phone number before fleeing his flat.

I leaned back in the sunshine, while sitting with my peers at the table.

Me, “I think I am in love.”

Someone, “With who now?”

Me, “I never got his name . . .”

I could still feel him and, in my mind, wondered if there was something there. The pavilion where we met could be the landmark to find him again. But it was Saturday, and it was a crazy day. Everything was packed, and just looking at it from behind the security gate was a headache.

That night, all my co-workers and students would be going to a Queer Dance party hosted by Lee Daniels. The word was he may have been too depressed to come out since his film “The Paperboy” polarized critics. No one had picked up the film for distribution, despite Nicole Kidman, Zac Efron and John Cusack headlining . . . not to mention a graphic anal sex scene with Matthew McConaughey.

The women in our group went out to pizza before the dance, and I found myself watching a small French woman, who looked like a Russian doll, eat her pizza with a knife and fork. Eventually, she caught my eye and showed me from two tables away how to eat my cheeseless pizza  . . . then toasted me from across the room.

I love France.

Behind me were two very handsome gentlemen in their late forties. Karisma had asked me to turn it off.

Karisma, “Turn it off. Off.”

Then I would sing, low, “This little light of mine . . . I’m gonna let it shine . . .”

Karisma shook her head, “No. Off.”

Me, “Let it shine. Let it shine. Let it . .  fine.”


We arrived to the Pavilion hosting the event and I was so ready to dance, I was already moving when we arrived. No one was allowed in officially, so off to the side, I danced as the security guard cheered me on.

The manager of the event gave me dirty looks. For every ten people that get a kick out of my energy, my humor and my bizarre public performances, there is at least one person who utterly despises me.

Its hard. I know not everyone will like me, and I really could put a cap on it, but then I would be kind of miserable and they would probably not like me anyway.

When people started filtering in, I knew I couldn’t drink if I was going to dance. Especially after the Hollywood Stones fiasco. A few people already asked me if I was on something. “Where do you find the energy?”

Really, my lame ass dancing just opened the door to more dancing and it became an uninhibited melting pot soon enough.

Darcy had my number and I told him to meet me outside the pavilion at midnight. I didn’t want to introduce him to my peers because his drinking made him unpredictable.

The music was sub-par since one of the students took over the DJ booth during the first half. He was playing a bunch of modern shit I had never heard before, orchestrated on someone’s computer somewhere; no spirit, just beat.

Lee Daniels did eventually show up, happy as can be, with Macy Gray. The kids swarmed around. To them, stars were still like gods.

Earlier in the day, I walked out and saw Brad Pitt walking down the red carpet. People from all ends of the festival ran to the gates, smiling and taking pictures. He was handsome, but really the only thought that occurred was, “His hair really is the exact same color as my dog, Brad. Huh.”

When I walked back to work, I ran into P. Diddy. I thought about telling him he threw a great dance party, but I am not really a fan so . . . why waste both of our time? Because he is a celebrity? Please. You have to pick your moments and make them yours. When you become indiscriminate with your time, your heart, your compliments- you really become absolutely nothing.

Lee Daniels danced and Macy Gray shuffled to the VIP tent to hide from everyone.

I kept dancing, and inevitably sweating. It was a hot, wet night. The clouds were in but it wasn’t raining. My clothes were soaking in humidity and hip hop. And the smell, which I know I have mentioned before, the smell of vegan-ess was rising through my clothes without apology. There was nothing I could do- there were so many of us on the dance floor. Rumor had it, Lee Daniels was high on ecstasy, and now cornered Karisma by the speakers in a two-step.

It was midnight, so I popped out and ran into Darcy, who was, of course, just on his way in. His chest was puffing out, his Scandinavian face blossomed into a big, reluctant smile. I thought about changing before the dance, but ran out of time, and was still in my mother’s capris and a t-shirt.

He took a step back and said, “You smell like a man.”

I smiled, “I know. I have been dancing for 2 hours.”

He said, “I love it. You look . . . adorable.”

Gosh, me? I looked like a poor high school student who was shopping at the Goodwill with someone ELSE’S mom.

He took my hand and looked me up and down- the purple socks, the leopard skin converse, the hair blown through by music, sea storms and sweat.

He said again, “You are too adorable. What can I get you to drink?”

I skipped behind him to the bar. He still liked me. His friend, tall, quiet and hunched over, followed.

Darcy, “This is my friend, Andrew. He is Heath Ledger’s brother.”

The friend nodded. I shook his hand.

Darcy, “You know Heath Ledger, don’t you?”

I said, “Yup. I do.”

I wasn’t going to play into the game. Darcy tried spreading a rumor that he was a rising celebrity’s brother. I can’t remember who it was now, even as I revisit the cast list for movies that week. Half the time, people were impressed and let him get in to parties based on his word. The rest of us knew better.

As for Heath Ledger, he never had a brother.

Darcy, “So, what are you having?”

Me, “Pink champagne.”

He looked me up and down, and smiled with a curl of the lip.

We sipped our plastic cups outside the VIP room. Darcy wanted to try to get us in on the Heath Ledger card, but it didn’t work.

Darcy tried to kiss me, but I backed up. “I can’t here. I have students.”

He said, “I really have to tell you something important, can you come here for a second?”

The corner of his jacket was lifted and I stuck my head in its shadow, just as his lips met mine. He tasted sweet.

Then I said, “I have to go back to dancing.”

He flung his hand up in the air, as if sending me away on his own volition.

I spotted Roche on his way in, and I ran up to greet him.

He smiled down at me and said, “You smell great.”

I lifted my pits and shook the sweat out, “I know, its terrible. There is nothing I can do.”

Roche put his hand on my lower back and said he was just dropping by. I know he had a crush on me, and I knew he didn’t have a chance, but I smiled back anyway.

I returned to the dance floor, and Michael Jackson popped on. THANK GOD!

Dancing, I started my singing thing and kind of joined in with a tall, British woman in a white evening gown and her partner, a tall, skinny boy with a short black hair cut, a red and white striped sailor top and a dinner jacket.

They liked that I was singing, looked at each other and joined me.

The boy was cute, when his mouth opened to smile, I could see two small incisors. I remember thinking, “I wish I was gay so I could have a cute, British gay boy.”

The music would go from Disco to Pop with the occasional winning choice of ABBA or something equally “gay” culture. It was spotty.

The tall boy said, “This has taken a bit of a turn for the weird, hasn’t it?”

Nice . . . accent.

I said, “Well, it is a queer dance, so the DJ probably thinks the only music he can play is Disco.”

He said, “Is this a queer dance?”

I nodded, “Aren’t you gay?”

He shook his head, “No.”


Me, “Oh.”

Before I knew it, he was dancing closer and closer to me.

As the British girl turned to look for someone else, and he came even closer to me, I thought, “I hope she doesn’t hate me for this.”

Then, as he kissed me on the mouth, I thought, “God help me, where is Darcy?”

I pulled back and said, “I can’t kiss you. My students are here.”

British Boy, “Where?”

I pointed to the large group right next to us, “Everywhere.”

He said, “Aw. Shit.”

His hands were on my hips and I knew he could smell me. I really expected stinking that bad would be an aversion- but they all kept rubbing up against me . . . tall, beautiful, Europeans. I wanted this boy. I thought about how I was going to pull off Britain and Darcy in one night. If it could happen in any way, I was going to make it happen.

When Sugar Hill Gang came on, all the whities danced and sang, as a few member of Macy Gray’s entourage coolly slid back and forth behind us.

They laughed at us. That’s right, they LAUGHED in my face.

And you know what I did?

I turned into them and sang my fucking heart out:

♪ ♫ ya start poppin ya fingers and stompin your feet
and movin your body while you’re sittin in your seat
and the damn ya start doin the freak
I said damn, right outta your seat
then ya throw your hands high in the air
ya rockin to the rhythm, shake your derriere
ya rockin to the beat without a care ♪ ♫

I wouldn’t waver. I know they thought I should feel embarrassed. They were laughing at me. They were laughing at us for being white, and clunky and for rapping . . . the thing about music is its for all of us.

So I spun, and hopped and rapped, and eventually, I got a closed mouth smile and a little nod. I am sure they just wanted me to go away. I didn’t want to be their friend, I just wanted them to see that Sugarhill Gang was mine too.

Darcy came up and grabbed my hand, stumbling. He was drunk. I liked him sober.

He said, “Come on, time to go.”

I pulled my hand back, “No. I am dancing.”

He put his hand on the air, dismissing me, as he trudged off. I turned back to the British Boy, maybe this night was salvageable.

We had one last song, it was “Heard it through the Grapevine.” Everyone knew it, the blacks, the whites and even the kids. We were all on the dancefloor at the same time, our voices rising through the top of the tent. Our church.

I am playing it now, and remembering putting my arm in the air with twenty others for the refrain:

♪ ♫ Oh I heard it through the grapevine,
Oh and I’m just about to lose my mind.
Honey, honey yeah ♪ ♫

Then I kept going:

♪ ♫ I know that a man ain’t supposed to cry,
But these tears I can’t hold inside.
Losin’ you would end my life you see,
‘Cause you mean that much to me.
You could have told me yourself
That you love someone else.
Instead… ♪ ♫

The music makes me take the stage. I draw attention to myself, that’s true. However, the peak for me is when everyone is there standing by me, singing in unison. The hands in the air as we anticipate each note together. Everyone smiling and you can’t turn without bumping into a stranger, sharing the note and the rhythm.

They lifted the lights and the music stopped. Just as a sober moment hits you over the head like Fairy Godmother’s wand, I realized that my supervisors were watching me, drenched in sweat, pink with soul and in the arms of a strange, beautiful British boy.

I said, “I have to do something responsible now, so they don’t think I am just a partier.”

He said, “Alright. Well, shall I wait for you?”

I said, “Please do.”

Checking in with one manager and another, they told me not to worry, that the kids found me relatable . . . but I know I am different, and being LOUD and different makes you less credible. Why couldn’t I just tone it down?

I grabbed a trash bag and started bussing the tables, when Darcy suddenly appeared.

He said, “NOW, can you go?”

I said, “I have to bus these tables first . . .”

Oh God, Oh God . . . where is the British Boy?

Darcy started grabbing cups and throwing them away for me.

My manager said, “Don’t worry about it. Its ok. We got this covered.”

I hurriedly did a sweep before stacking all the chairs. I stacked and stacked and stacked until I really felt utterly useless. Then I grabbed my bag, turned around, and both suitors were gone. This did give me a moment of ease, because having them both there would have been a disaster.

I walked out of the area, and felt the sea breeze blow on my neck and face. That is the only consolation to leaving a dance party- that first breath of cold air. I was alone. Everyone had left, and I was still high on Marvin Gaye.


On a whim, I started walking towards the Palais when my phone rang. It was Darcy.

Darcy, “Where are you?”

He wins.

Me, “I am walking by the Palais now, towards the Croisette.”

Darcy was hard, “Where? I don’t see you.”

I put my hand in the air, “I am standing right here, in one spot.”

Darcy’s voice outside started barking in synch to his voice over the phone, “I am at the Palais facing the street and you are nowhere to be found.”

Me, “Now that is not true, because I can hear your voice.”

Darcy’s voice was behind me, “Bullshit.”

I put down my phone as he walked towards me. He smiled, his hands out.

He is handsome, but he is a terrible drunk. Why did he have to get wasted?

As my hand curled through his arm, we began walking on the inside streets looking for food. It was 2am, and a sandwich stand was still open. I asked for an ice cream cone, and felt my brain swim in sugar and cream for the first time in years.

As Darcy waited for his sandwich, I closed my eyes, “MMMMM, why is that so good?”

Darcy, “Good, eh?”

Me, “Ridiculous.”

We passed by a man in a tuxedo, and he said, “Are you going to the party?”

I said, “Which party? We are looking for a party?”

He said, “At the top of the hill. There is a party.”

I pulled on Darcy’s arm, “We should go.”

Darcy snarled, and in his delicate accent, responded, “You want to go to a fucking party? What for?”

I said, “Um . . . to dance.”

Darcy said, “No, we are going home. (to tuxedo) But thank you.”

I said, “We are going to whose home?”

Darcy, “My home.”

I said, “How do I know you aren’t a serial killer of some kind?”

Darcy, “Bullocks.”

He walked up a step to sit down and fell backwards on his ass.

I said, “You are drunk.”

Darcy, “I am not, I thought there was glass right there. You are rude!”

He stuffed the sandwich in his mouth and I worried he would ruin our Jane Austen affair.

I put out my foot and leaned into my knee, “Are you an alcoholic?”

Darcy, “What makes you think I am an alcoholic?”

Me, “I fall in love with alcoholics.”

Darcy finished his sandwich in no time and said, “Let’s find a taxi.”

Me, “No, I prefer to walk. That way I can find my way back.”

Darcy, “Its a long way up that hill.”

Me, “I prefer to walk it.”

Darcy, “Well, I don’t.”

Me, “Why are we having a domestic dispute on our first date? Is this how intense our love affair is going to be? Are we in a relationship now? Is that what is happening?”

He smiled and took my arm.

Darcy, “If you prefer to walk, let’s walk.”

We walked up the hill. The festival is by the seaside with a few streets walled in with restaurants and retail vendors.

The rest of the city is straight up a very steep hill.

It was a rigorous walk, so I am glad I had on my good converse. It also helped my drunk suitor sweat a bit of the alcohol out.

Me, “Are we there yet?”

Darcy, “No, we are a third of the way there.”

Me, “Are you serious?”

Darcy, “You insisted on walking.”

We climbed, and danced along cobble stones, and old railings, houses with storm shutters closing out my giggling and his banter.

We stopped.

Me, “How much further?”

Darcy, “Halfway there.”

Me, “(breathing heavily) . . . fuck”

Darcy wouldn’t let me stop, “Come on then, we have to keep going.”

We stopped at the base of very tall, outdoor stairs. I looked up the thing and shook my head.

Me, “Seriously?”

He said, “I am just at the top of this staircase. Now, you should know my parents are staying with me.”

Me, “What?”

Darcy, “Yes, well they wanted to see the festival this year. The red carpet and all that shit. Its too much for them, they won’t want to come again.”

Me, “Oh.”

Darcy, “Just be quiet when we go inside, alright?”

I nodded, took in a deep breath and climbed the stairs until we reached an outside gate. He unlocked it, and carefully stepped over grass trying to overthrow what must have been a couple hundred years worth of stone laid out for our step.

The house was old, and I of course, loved it.

We walked in and climbed a spiral staircase to his bedroom. It was barely lived in, with only a few pieces of film flyers, a schedule and a bunch of change dumped out over the dresser.

He froze, so I froze. We listened.

Darcy, “They are up.”

I looked around a little like I didn’t know what that meant.

He said, “Would you like a drink?”

I said, “Please.”

He came back with a glass of wine, and I sat on the bed.

Me, “So, what do you do?”

He said, “I buy comedy and horror movies.”

Me, “For?”

Darcy, “Norway.”

Me, “Oh, you are Norwegian. I wasn’t sure, your accent sounds British.”

Darcy, “Oh?” He took a sip. He was confident.

Me, “Speak to me in Norwegian.”

He did.

I giggled and bounced on his bed.

He crawled up to me and kissed me.

We disrobed and he tried to enter me without protection. I felt dirty . . . in a liberating way.

I pushed him back a little and said, “Do you have genital herpes?”

He said, “No, my doctor says I am immune to genital herpes.”

I laughed, “That’s not possible.”

Darcy said, “Yes it is. He told me so.”

Everything he said rung out with such authority like it was struck from our very own liberty bell, I wasn’t about to argue with him.

He had a wonderful body, smooth and sculpted. He also was just rough enough to play without pushing me to question the tone of our affair. It was friendly.

We were about banter, push and pull, teasing- and without question he entered me without a condom.

Even as I write this, I take in a breath remembering how good it felt. He fit perfectly, and when he moved, it tickled until I climaxed.

He said, “Did you just cum?”

I nodded, holding my hand over my head, “Yeah, I never cum the first time. That’s weird.”

He kept going, and once again, I don’t remember how it ended. Did he cum? Did he not cum?

I only remember him saying, “Why the hell is there sand in my bed?”

I sleepily responded, “Because I took a nap on the beach today.”


When I woke up, the early morning orange broke through his cracked storm shutter. It was early.

Rolling over, I put my arm around his bare body and rested my chin on his shoulder, wondering if it was a turn off for him. He embraced me.

I wondered if he was the one. Was he the one who will fly me out to Norway, show me the world, meet my parents, get me pregnant . . . will he be the one that falls in love with me, the way I fall in love with them?

I said, “I am so tired.”

Darcy, “Me too . . . and I have to go to Monaco today.”

Me, “I haven’t slept in 2 weeks.”

Darcy, “Me either, well I get about 4 hours a day. No one sleeps in Cannes.”

I grabbed the glass at the bed stand and took a swallow.

Darcy, “That’s wine, you know?”

I put down the glass, turned and looked at him, “Oh, I know.”

He turned and kissed me, passionately. I thought about my breath, my hair . . . were my eyes puffy, did I smell better or worse than last night?

His tongue suspended all worry, as it wrapped around mine, and I gave into him again.

We made love and he said, “Do you want me to cum inside of you?”

I said, “You can’t. I’m not on birth control.”

Darcy, “Do you want me to cum? I am about to.”

Good Lord, why does it do it for me?

We simultaneously orgasmed. This is such a rare occasion, that I remember the last time I had a simultaneous orgasm- which was Christmas morning with my husband (at the time) in 2003.

All the lovers I have had since, the ones I felt comfortable enough to orgasm with, withdrew before cumming, leaving my chamber empty to climax alone.

This was the first time somebody surrendered with me in the moment, without a thought to the consequence. It felt like the ultimate release. We both held each other for a moment.

He said, breathlessly, “Why do you orgasm so easily?”

Me, “I don’t usually.” Usually someone is more responsible than me. “You have a nice cock.”

Darcy, “Thank you.”

Me, “Or should I stop outside and thank your mother?”

He laughed. Then listened for her.

Laying back with his cock drained and beached on the top of his thigh, he said, in an American accent, “Surely you can’t be serious. ‘Yes, and don’t call me surely.”

I laughed.

Darcy, “‘Nice beaver! ‘Thanks, I just had it stuffed.’”

I giggled again. I love “Airplane”. GESUS, I am a dork.

Darcy, “‘Pull-over!’ ‘No it’s a cardigan but thanks for asking!”

I giggled again, too loud to hide from his parents, but he just smiled and lay still.

Darcy, “Why is there sand in my bed?”

Me, “I told you, I slept on the beach yesterday.”

He brushed the sand off his sheets.

I said, “Can I take a shower?”

He said, “Well, you can. But I have to warm up the water first. This is a very old building.”

I said, “Shit.”

Getting dressed, I caught my face in the mirror. My eyes were puffy, my hair outrageous. I stood in my underwear shaking my head.

Me, “Christ. I look tired. What if I get pregnant?”

Darcy, “Well, then you’re fucked.”

Darcy put on his underwear, it had a cartoon airplane printed across the front of it. So, I took a picture of him.

He, then, took a picture of me in my underwear.

After getting dressed, quietly, we tip toed passed the other bedroom, and I slowly descended down the staircase with my sunglasses on. He hung over the banister, smiling at me.

I pushed on the door.

Darcy whispered, loudly, “PUSH THE BUTTON!”

I pushed on the door again.

Darcy, “THE BUTTON!”

I pushed the button. A slight buzz released the lock.

I said, “OH. Push the button.”

Smiling, I saluted him. He waved at me with a flicker of his fingers and a big smile.

Walking home, I stopped by a small cafe, ordered an omelet and an espresso. The man who owned the shop sent someone to buy a baguette, so he could cut it up to serve with my breakfast.

Cannes was just waking up, again.

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Making Love to the Doors . . . Will Make You Crazy

The Doors (Ray Manzarek and Robby Krieger) were playing once again with Dave Brock on vocals on April 26th.

We were all running late that day. Abe bought tickets last minute but had to work  and I spent the afternoon with Jeph touring the LACMA museum.

Drifting through modern art, we sat in each other’s silences, talked about the Surrealist Women’s Exhibit.

And we spoke about little things. Jeph is my oldest friend in Los Angeles. Always sporting a Hawaiian shirt and an off-the-wall positive attitude, it’s easy to be his friend.

We walked along the tar pits and wandered in the museum like it was cavities of someone else’s mind.


Then I left him to rush over to Frank’s, where the dogs were, and get ready for the Doors show in Anaheim.

I was exhausted, and Frank trapped me in his living room with Stones music. He said, “You seem to be more into the Stones these days.”

I said, “No. I love dancing to the Stones, but once I start listening to Doors music, I obsess.”

No one really knows what to expect when you say something like that. Most of the time, people usually think I am exaggerating or being dramatic. I have had to ration Doors music earlier in my life, just to get on with things. I get stuck sometimes, listening to them. Trapped in a melody, trapped in time. It’s difficult to function, so often I avoid Doors music all together until everything around me has changed, and the routine shifts.

I wore a simple hippie t-shirt with birds and hearts, skinny jeans, and danced out the door as Frank tempted me with one last Stones song.

I made good time in traffic and arrived to Downtown Disney about an hour before they were scheduled to hit the stage.

I waited in line, looking for  Cece, the girl who hustled the last Doors show with me at the Whiskey in August. I didn’t see her or Abe anywhere. I also couldn’t get a signal to call or text anyone. If Abe could find me in Joshua Tree, he could find me here, right?

The line snaked around the entrance a few times, so I just got in line after will call and waited. Funny enough, the man in front of me was an American who lived in Paris, and the three men behind me were French. Charming, middle-aged and wonderfully flirtatious, they kept my attention on what museums to see, what to look for and what to eat.

When the line started moving, they bought me a drink, and soon I drifted away looking for my friends. I turned into CeCe and got an enormous hug. She and her boyfriend greeted me and we all went to the bathroom.

On the way out of the bathroom, I ran into Abe. We hugged and pecked- he swung around to the bathroom and returned for introductions. He always thinks people act weird around him. Its that high school reject in him I identify with, but he hasn’t yet learned from that life. Its pure perception.

We made our way to the bottom floor by the stage. It was incredibly crowded. Abe said, “It will take too long to get a beer down here, so I am going to go upstairs, ok?”

I held onto his hand and reluctantly let it go.

CeCe, her man and I got a spot at the end of the bar, on the far right of the stage. A young man of about 25 wavered back and forth, staring at me.

CeCe said, “I think you have a fan.”

I smiled and waved. He lazily opened his eyes a little and raised those plump lips into a bigger smile. He was handsome and very, very drunk.

I said, “It’s so easy to make new friends here.”

The lights went out and the music for Carmina Burana: Introduction burst from the speakers, which is odd since it is on the soundtrack for the film (I know no other affiliation) and I happen to know Ray Manzarek hated the Doors movie. Then “Roadhouse Blues” kicked in.

I frantically looked for Abe, pushing through so many people, their perfume and sweat rubbed off on me. I made my way all the way to the staircase to the upper level . . . no Abe.

The music . . .

The music was calling me.

I slid, and excused myself, and pushed, and wiggled my way back to the spot by the stage and danced.

This time, Dave Brock toned down his over-sexualized, bawdy Morrison impression and just sang the music with an occasional leap in the air.

I danced, and my drunk boy fan turned towards me and put his hand on his heart, stumbling back. I laughed. He was adorable, though totally gone.

We danced through “Break on Through” and then “When the Music’s Over”. At that point, despite knocking into me and another woman, he knocked into a short Hispanic man, forcing his drink to spill. The Hispanic man didn’t like that and Drunk boy’s friend intervened. Then security escorted him out.

That sucked.

I sang and danced.

I want to hear
I want to hear
The scream of the butterfly”

Then they did “Moonlight Drive” one of my favorites. This is where the group singing died out and only the hardcore fans kept singing along. Ray even sang “Horse Latitudes” which is an unusual track and even hard to listen to.

Next song was “Wild Child” from the Soft Parade album (considered their weakest album but I feel it is sorely underrated), then “Rock Me” . . . oh Rock Me . . . the song that might get me to close my eyes and make love to any man like he is Jim Morrison.

“My Eyes Have Seen You” from Strange Days . . . “Love Me Two Times” . . . then “Not to Touch the Earth” . . . . mmmm. What a great arrangement, even better than the Whiskey I think.

Was it around”Touch Me” that a group of three fat girls pushed me out of the way to dance next to the stage. I didn’t mind, I was deep in the music. My dancing was in the corner under a shadow, where only my friends and an older man in his 60s could really see me.

The girls noticed me, and one grabbed my arm and said, “I love you.”

I said, “Thank you.”

Then she pushed me up to the stage, she said, “You belong here, come here.”

I resisted at first, but knew in a matter of seconds, all these people would smell my BO. I was dancing so hard, no amount of perfume or deodorant could possibly mask the Minestrone-esque scent pouring out of my body.

So I got up near the corner of the stage and found myself next to the giant speaker on stage left.

“LA Woman” came on, a song a few close friends consider my mantra. It’s a tragic mantra, but if its Doors, I will take it.

The burn of the opening music shook the speaker, and I felt the sound move like wind against my body. I knew my hearing was going to take a hit standing next to this thing. The music seduced me. It was that point when there is nothing but a thin pair of cotton panties between you and a man. The point of no return.

I leaned up against the speaker and started rocking with the music. Security showed up, but politely wedged themselves between me and the audience.  They were going to let me stay there. I was propped up high enough that I was dancing just over everyone’s heads but also just below the stage, visible to Ray on keyboards.

Are you a lucky little lady in the City of Light
Or just another lost angel . . . City of Night
City of Night, City of Night, City of Night whoa, come on!

The music was pounding through my back and I braced myself against the speaker with one arm as I danced like a Go-Go dancer. I sang so hard my lungs scorched through the thumping of bass.

Everyone sang.

Drivin’ down your freeways
Midnight alleys roam
Cops in cars
in Topless Bars
Never saw a woman,
So alone . . . so alone . . .


Dave Brock groaned the lyrics and I watched his hair bounce. From a distance if I squint a little, he could pass for Jim.

The song slowed and throbbed against my butt, and I rubbed myself all over that speaker like a cat slithering on catnip.

I wouldn’t say that dancing is usually sexy for me, though that seems a ridiculous thing to say since you are moving your body to a beat. And I know when people see me dancing hard for 90 minutes or more, the thought occurs to them, “I wonder what she’s like in bed.”

The woman who tapped Abe’s shoulder at the Brixton during the Stones show said, “She is just getting started, you are in for a long night.”

I think it’s humorous. I don’t mind people commenting on my dancing since it does become such a spectacle. And little did she know that the one who can last a long time is Abe. So I won’t deny that my dancing always has a sexual element, despite my overall feeling that it is not overtly sexual.

The exception was this night, at the House of Blues.

That speaker was a hot bed of rhythm and heat.

It was making love to me, saying everything I knew by heart, everything I wanted to hear . . .

“If they say I never loved you . . .
You know they are a liar.”

Gently slapping my ass with building speed, air blowing on the back of my neck and through my hair I fought my reluctance to stop. I wanted to die there, and let the music shake me into smoking embers.

The band bowed off stage, at which point we all started screaming. My throat was dry and cracking.

“Ray? Robby? Please? Don’t stop. More!!!!!!”

They came back out, the lights and cheers from the crowd rose like it was all orchestrated from a hidden booth.

“Riders on the Storm” drizzled on through the speakers, like the mist before a storm. I rocked back and forth against the speaker and sang with Dave in that erotic whisper.

Ray introduced “Light my Fire” next and I curled my upper lip. Of course. Let’s do “Light My Fire” in case we didn’t hear it 4,000 times on the radio earlier that day.

It is my least favorite Doors song, but when it started, the lights turned orange and yellow and my experience took a new level.

At this point, I could see Ray smiling from afar as he pressed hard on the keyboard. I felt like the band knew I was there and enjoyed pushing and stroking the instruments as my body responded from 25 ft. away. It was like strings were tugging on my limbs and hips, and they were the puppeteers.

I anticipated the beat, but felt their breath move me from the speakers and gently push me to their cues.

Was Ray looking at me? Was he smiling at me?

The song went on for its extended length, Ray played the keyboard with his foot again and I was soaking wet all over the place. I mean . . . all over the place.

When they stopped, they bowed, and I screamed for them not to go. They didn’t look my direction.

Here, yeah, I almost started crying.

“Please? PLEASE! NOO!”

Robby handed out guitar picks to everyone in the front but completely avoided my wing of the stage. This I took very personally. WHAT THE FUCK?

The play lists were thrown out to the crowd, and people grabbed for them, tearing them apart.

The security guards who allowed me to dance against the stage, now wedged between me and my obsession.

I said, “What do I have to do to get back there? I really need to meet them.”

Security Guard, “Sorry, they told me no one can go back there.”


The security guards chuckled a little.

Me, “Seriously, I will do anything to get back there. ANYTHING.”

A guy behind me said, “She will do anything.”

The Security Guard slowly shook his head as if to toss this around for a second.

Then I said, “I saw Axl Rose! They let me back to see him.”

They chuckled again.

Defeated, I shrunk a little and said, “Well, do you think they saw me, at least?”

Security Guard, “I am pretty sure everyone saw you. That’s why I asked to work this side .”

I put my hands on the barrier and jumped up and down, screaming Beatle-Mania again.

Someone handed me a ripped play list as a consolation prize. This crowd was generous with me.

I turned and pouted towards CeCe and her boyfriend, who were calmly waiting for me to run myself down. Another Security Guard approached and said, “The show is over, the doors are that way.”

CeCe said, “No, the Doors are that way.” She pointed towards the fallen curtain.

I leaned forward and said, “If the doors of perception were cleansed, everything would appear to man as it truly is . . . infinite.”

He smiled politely and once again, motioned to the doors.  I growled.

I left and walked out into the cool night air. Abe nowhere to be found. CeCe and I said our goodbyes and I headed back to my car to chain smoke my frustration away.

Once again, I needed more.

I called Abe, and there was no answer.

I was hot and tipsy (people bought me drinks) and I needed to collapse.

First, I thought about heading back to Frank’s where the dogs were, then I resolved to just go to Abe’s since it was only 10 minutes away. I pulled in and somehow saw him.

Me, “What the fuck?”

Abe, “They locked the downstairs so I couldn’t go back down. Good show though.”

That was a good reason.

I said, “Ok, I am coming down hard from this.”

So he led me back into his apartment, and his roommate was still up. I was panting and groaning for more music. It was a little over the top.

Abe put his hand on my back and pushed me passed his roommate, “We are going through a little Doors withdrawal.”

Abe and I showered to get the sweat off. I couldn’t stay in one spot for very long, so dried off, pacing back and forth in his room.

Abe, “Are you upset because Jim Morrison is dead? Thats what this is really about isn’t it?”

Me, “Of course I am upset he is dead. And the same strain of heroin killed Janis. NO ONE CARES!”

Abe downloaded all the Doors albums to his ipod and plugged in speakers so I could listen to it.

Moonlight Drive
People Are Strange
My Eyes Have Seen You

Then, “I Can’t See Your Face in my Mind” came on. A little B-side favorite of mine.

I got on my knees at the side of the bed and put my head between the speakers, then rubbed them over both my ears.

Insanity’s horse
Adorns the sky
Can’t seem to find the right lie

Carnival dogs
Consume the lines
Can’t see your face in my mind

Abe, “You need to take a walk and blow off whatever this is.”

I whined, “I need the music.”

Abe put it in a bag and we walked with the music as I skipped and complained about not being backstage.

I was manic and running out of cigarettes.

Abe, “Baby, its almost 3am. I have to go to sleep. What is going on with you?”

Me, “THIS IS my mental illness. Don’t you get it? This is my disease. Once I start with this music, I can’t stop.”

Abe, “Calm down.”

Me, “I am trying. I am annoyed by myself too. My brain won’t stop.”

We walked a bit more in the night, as his little ipod echoed the dead voice of someone who could never satisfy me.

Abe, “What can I do to get you to stop?”

Me, “Nothing. Nothing would satisfy me. Not if they played longer. Not if it was the real Doors concert. It all ends and my mind just keeps going.”

We were out of pot and there was nothing to calm me down. *Note to Self: Bring Valium next Doors concert

Around 4am, I stopped. My breath slowed. The music stopped.

At 6am, I had to be up for a morning show call. I felt like shit. Not to mention, I had to work later in the day at Doggie Daycare.

Abe texted me later that day: “My roommate says U were coked up last night? U did act like you were coming down. Did Frank give you coke?”

Me: “No. I had 4 beers and love the Doors. That’s all.”

“If I had coke, I would have shared some before fucking you. I thought you knew me better.”

Abe: “I said to him U weren’t and would have told me. But where did U get all that energy.”

Me: “I am crazy. I thought you knew.”

Abe: “Last night was a heavy dose of hyper something from U.”

Me: “I have a chemical imbalance.”

Abe: “Tell yr brain to fix it.”

Me: “I have come a long way. I used to be manic like that 70% of the time when I was 16-17. Its not so bad every once in a while for something I love so much.”

Abe: “But how did U talk to people acting strange like that? Its like U could do anything all of a sudden like U arent in control. Yr hot too.”

Me: “I was painfully shy and only close to a few people who thought I was bi-polar. Various theories about what medication to put me on and reactions to alcohol. I was just hyped up and bizarre. I forced myself to calm down, exercise, smoked weed and my brain chemicals balanced more.

I still have bouts of mania and depression, but only few and far between. Pot, sleep and exercise make all the difference. And escaping adolescence.

I do love the Doors WAY too much.”

Abe: “I believe U and cant believe it. :)”


I crawled into work again with sore hamstrings, but the only thing I could think about was, “What’s my next concert?”

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