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Michael was standing in the bedroom doorway, decked out in his dirty grey sweats, stained t-shirt and ratty bathrobe. His thick black and gray-speckled hair was matted against his head, and his five o’clock shadow was creeping down his neck and up his cheeks. “Peggy, when’s lunch?” he asked.

Peggy sat at the kitchen table, head resting in her hands. Her fingers massaged her throbbing temples. “There’s some soup warming in the microwave.”

“Microwave?” Michael whined. “So, we’re just warming things up, now? That’s okay. Homemade is better, but microwave is okay.” And Michael shuffled back to the bedroom to park on the bed and binge on another SVU marathon.

At the time, it all seemed like such a good idea. It was a good idea. A spontaneous idea. And, okay, it was an illegal idea. But it happened and now this where they were. Peggy had to deal. Peggy had to get Michael the fuck outta her house.

In the beginning, Michael’s music was the soundtrack of all Peggy’s milestones. Michael’s maple syrup tenor accompanied her first “I love you” in her twenties. His charging guitar chords blasted through her 30th birthday. And his tender lyrics comforted her when that “I love you” became “Good bye.” His words were the story of her life. There was no greater joy than being in the front row of his concerts, letting his voice soothe away her woe.

Peggy was a borderline stalker, but stalking seemed like too much work.

How did it arrive that he was her willing and demanding hostage? To sum up, there was a concert, followed by a meeting and then drinks. And then you mix in flirting, touching and kissing with a passionate cab ride and the result was the beautiful, sensual, intense and pleasurable act Peggy had fantasized about for years. (Ahem, sex.)

Later, as Michael slept off was could be described as a colossal hangover, a fiendish plot tapped Peggy’s brain. A wonderfully fiendish, awful plot. She found the handcuffs she got has a joke gift for her 40th birthday and, quietly straddling her prey, Michael was hers.

That was about six weeks ago. That first morning was rough. Obviously, Michael was a little disturbed about his situation. He shouted, cursed, seethed and struggled against the handcuffs. Peggy floundered to find ways to placate him. She was unprepared for his anger. After all, kidnapping one of the music industry’s critical darlings was an impulse move; she had no words to justify her actions.

Michael finally settled down when she outlined his current reality: he was handcuffed to a bed. Complying was his best option. After all, she was willing to meet his every need, EVERY NEED; he should just sit back and enjoy it.

The first week was tense. He protested all of Peggy’s approaches. Nothing could cheer him . . . not his favorite music, TV shows, not even the promise of granting some of his dirtiest sexual fantasies. Then she cooked for him. Peggy knew her way around the kitchen. Her chicken piccata began to soften him. A dose of her homemade minestrone soup continued his conversion. Her dark chocolate mousse cake sealed the deal.

Peggy cooked and cooked and he ate and ate. They talked and talked. The second week was magical. Peggy was in heaven. For 20 years, her one hope was to get close to Michael. He talked about how a lonely childhood contributed to his songwriting. She talked about the trials and tribulations of being a single lady in her 40s. They were becoming close.

The third week was when things started to get weird. Peggy assumed his life as a rock-n-roll icon had laid down a level of expectations. Michael was not a household name; most of Peggy’s friends gave her the dead eyes when she spoke of him. But he was a critical darling, but everyone who knew him loved him. So maybe he had grown to expect a certain amount of accommodation. He was a borderline diva; she was a borderline stalker. They should have been perfect for each other.

They were not.

Things went south in week four when his disappearance hit the news. An icon of the alternative music world was M.I.A., and no one seemed to care, especially his band. At first, there were the CNN crawls about his disappearance. A few shows were cancelled. Then the rhythm guitarist, John, stepped up. He took over the lead singer and lead guitarist role. “Because we just can’t let our fans down,” John said in interview after interview after interview. He seemed to pop up CNN, MSNBC, NBC, ABC, CBS, and even FOX News.

“Bullshit!” Michael shouted at John’s earnest image on the TV. “That backstabbing asshole has been gunning for me for years. Well, if he thinks that the fans will like him, he’s fucking crazy!”

The fans loved him. John possessed a more innocent vibe and presented a more yearnful interpretation of Michael’s songs. He even managed to add a few of his own to the set list. Peggy had to admit, when she watched YouTube footage of the John shows (hidden deep in the closet to avoid Michael’s sulky whines) that she liked what she heard and saw. John was giving her all the feels.

Michael, on the other hand, was giving her agita. When John’s star began to rise, Michael began to sink. And stink. Peggy was sure to give him space to bathe and did some quick clothes shopping. But he settled on the sweat pants and t-shirt look, and eschewed the shower.

Michael would ball up on the bed and rail on about all the “atrocities” committed against him. From the unsupportive record label to the barista who messed up his order, the world was against him. Then he’d turn his sad, green eyes to her and say, “But here everything is fine. I should just stay here, stay with you. And can you mix me up some of that delicious clams marinara.”

“But I don’t have the ingredients,” Peggy said.

“Please. And don’t forget the garlic bread.”

Michael was becoming overbearing, miserable, and immovable. When Peggy suggested that it was time for him to return to the spotlight, he balked. Peggy concocted a great story for him, about retreating to the desert to mediate and recoup. She added to the story that a yogi suggested the desert trip to refine his damaged soul. But he said no.

“I’m happy here,” Michael said. “I don’t want to leave. What’s for dinner? I’m in the mood for steak and potatoes.”
Peggy was beginning to get desperate. Michael was unwilling to leave, unwilling to improve, and would make hints about what could happen to her.

“Kidnapping is a crime,” he would say. “I hear a person could get life for that. Now, if I could stay for a little longer, I could keep my mouth shut, but I could get real talkative if I had to leave. Now, for lunch how about a BLT? On that lovely homemade bread.”

Peggy’s temples throbbed as the microwave hummed. Michael was in the bedroom, cheering on Detective Benson’s latest take down of a perp. “Olivia is bad ass!!” he shouted. “She really came into her own after Elliot left. He held my girl back!” he called out to Peggy. “How’s that soup??”

“Almost done,” Peggy said.

The microwave dinged and Peggy rose from the chair. She took the bowl out, blew on the hot soup (because Michael’s delicate tongue) and stirred it. The crushed Ambien pills were dissolved in the hot mix and should be tasteless. He’d sleep for hours. Once midnight struck, she’d tie him to her office chair, sneak him out to her car, and drive him to a local hospital. To ensure he keeps his mouth shut, a little blackmail. Some compromising photos were attached of this alternative music, liberal icon watching the O’Reilly Factor that would do the trick.

And Peggy’s temples stopped throbbing.

_____

Barbara Morrison – bkmmorr@yahoo.com – 201-679-4446

Year-end brings about many Top Ten Lists: Top Ten Movies, Albums, Songs, Celebrity Break-Ups. I began to think, “Hey, if Slate, Entertainment Weekly and People, can do a Top Ten List, then, gosh darn it, so can I!”

Many good times with friends and family could over populate this list. If your moment is not here, don’t worry. I value and treasure all these good times (birthday partying with my sisters, Girls’ Night with my gang, summer concerts with new friends, painting parties, etc.).

So, for your reading pleasure, here is Barbara Morrison’s 2016 Top Ten List. In no particular order:

1. Got my piece of the Rock: Correcting the biggest mistake I ever made (worse than cutting my own bangs at 14), I returned my former place of business. I learned the hard way that the grass is not always greener and that I do not enjoy drastic change. But conversely….
2. Unemployment: When I was in it, I did not think it my four-month employment break would get a spot on the list. I was worried about finances and feeling like a failure. Losing my job, albeit one I was not qualified for, kicked me in the gut. However, I’d be lying if I said I did not miss it. No agendas, no alarm clocks, no deadlines, no traffic, no passive-aggressive co-workers who smile when they throw you under the bus. Good times.
3. (Tie) His name is Mike: My four-year-old niece, Maggie, informed us of the name of her new stuffed alligator. We suggested Ally, Crocie and even Elton. But no, it’s Mike. Who’s Mike? Who knows.
4. (Tie) Quote of the year: “Everybody has a dessert spot,” Brielle Morrison, Age Four, April 2016. Absolute brilliance.

Moments with my nieces could take up every Top Ten List published in every December of every year. Nothing that happened in 2016 can top all the snuggles, giggles, fist-pumps and run-and-go hugs.

4. Did you know that he sings: My sister mentioned this as we were swooning over ADA Barba on Law & Order: SVU. Moments later I typed “Raúl Esparza” into the YouTube search bar, found this and – BAM-OH – I had a new crush.  My SVU binge left me with a great appreciation for the Esparza Eye Roll. No one gives better eye roll than my sweet Raúl. One Tip: Do not watch all three seasons of Hannibal in one week. An amazing, unique show, but a little brutal. Although it did keep me on my diet.

I would be remiss if I excluded meeting Mr. Esparza. He is actually more beautiful in person and his hands are very soft. He also complimented Wilco, so points.

5. Wilco at the Capitol Theatre: No, Wilco at the Kings Theatre. No, Wilco at the Mann Theater. Picking my favorite Wilco show is like picking my favorite child, if I had children of varying musical genres. Each is special in its own way. If I had to pick the best Wilco moment of 2016, it is this song. Jeff Tweedy singing for every kid who questioned normalcy, was afraid of normalcy, fought against and even yearned for normalcy. Which I think was all of us.
6. MacGruber and Twitter: This is the year I began to master the hashtag. Twitter love from the famous (Lin-Manuel Miranda liked one of my tweets) and the famous in my world (Robyn Hitchcock replied to my Tweet) is addicting. This culminated with Twitter love and a hug from Will Forte. He even joined the ranks of my 75 Twitter followers! I imagined him reading my blog, thinking that I am the next Tina Fey, and getting me a job writing for Stephen Colbert. Then I saw that he follows over 1,000 people. So . . . not really following me, just a good guy. Dang! Foiled again.
7. 15 minutes of fame. (More precisely, 15 second of fame): Wanna know who won @midnight’s October 27 Hashtag War? ME!!! But trying to explain the Hashtag War to my mom was almost an impossible task, so I dropped it.
8. Planks with shoulder taps: Sounds innocuous enough, but believe me, this is a little bit of torture not included in the Geneva Convention. But much like Hamilton at the Battle of Yorktown, I did not give up my shot and conquered the crap outta this be-atch. In January, I could barely do five. In December, I can get up to 30, baby.
9. Cheaper than therapy: I could not let this list go without Born Again Teen by Lucius. I’ve listened to this song hundreds of times, often on repeat. And every time it makes me smile. Who needs therapy when I can Laaa Lala La le Laaaa the day away. Go on, listen to it. I dare you not to be happy.
10. She ain’t so bad: Evidence provided by my current employer suggests that I am not as bad as I had originally thought. I know, crazy, right? Brick-by-brick I am rebuilding my broken ego that was always perilously fragile. I know that my unfortunate unemployment was worse in my head than in reality, but it did leave a scar.

However, I refuse to drown in self-pity. To paraphrase Hamilton: Scratch that; this is not a pity-party, it’s an improvement.  My name is Barbara Morrison and I need no introduction. When you knock me down I get the fuck back up again!  

2016 has not been the best. But even as what I have been calling “The Year of Suck” ends, I can find a few things to be thankful for.

First and foremost, I am very thankful for my family. There are a lot of them, and each one of them is smart, funny, warm and kind. I’m lucky to have you. And by the way, you are also lucky to have me.

Next of course, thankful for a great group of friends. From the ones who have been around forever to the newbies, you all make me laugh and bring light to my life.

It must be noted that I am extremely thankful for all the support and positivity family and friends threw my way. As I mentioned, the first half of the year was not spectacular. It kind of kicked me in the teeth. But you all helped me through the shit. I am beginning to see a tip of my own self-worth peaking up over the horizon. And some of that is from you.

I am thankful to be back at the Rock. I should never have quit you, baby. I am so happy you took me back.

We must all give thanks that Wilco brought back the rockin’ version of “Spiders.” And I got to see it four times this year. And a special shout out to my trainer who helped build my strength so I can shake it for the entire 11 minutes of the song.

It goes without saying, but I’m still saying it, thank God for music. My Wilco and the lovely ladies of Lucius give me so much joy, and it’s so much cheaper than therapy.

I am very thankful for my sweet Raúl Esparza’s big, green eyes and the Barba Eye Roll. Oh, and for when he sucks in his lower lip. Damn – that is the sexiest stuff right there.

I’m even thankful for my obsessions and crushes; they give me something to look forward to and think about in traffic.

Finally – thank the gods I have this little forum for expressing my funny side. And thank you for reading it.

Happy Thanksgiving. Be nice to each other.

I was inspired recently. Upon reading Will Forte’s book, “101 Things to Definitely Not Do if You Want to Get a Chick,” I recognized that I have a wealth of dating knowledge that I could pass on to the masses. Like Mr. Forte (a new addition to my crush list), I am a single, a 46-year old and, therefore, a good source of dating advice.

I do not have 101 tips, but I can think of a few. Heck, my whole life has been leading up to a “What Not to Do” column, so let’s get started.

If I let the self-loathing part of my psyche take over, I would say that the first tip is not be me. But I am doing some soul searching and making some self-affirmations, so it’s not me. Well, it is not totally me. I am not as hideous as I think I am, but thinking I’m hideous gives off a hideous vibe, so guys find me hideous. So, my first tip is stop thinking that you are hideous.

Here are some other tips from your perpetually single friend. Mind you this is not a “Do as I Do” thing.  It is a definitely “Don’t do as I Do” thing. Oh good lord, do not do as I do!

• Unless you have a smoking hot bod and are willing to put out, do not go for the guitar player or lead singer of a band. If you are a nice, cute girl like me, go for the bass player. Often ignored, but by virtue of being a bass player, these are steady, low-key, kind guys who would probably lather you with attention.
• For dating sites to work, you actually have to use them.
• Do not develop a crush on the executive vice president you occasionally see in the elevator. He has no idea who you are. He is also probably married and already having an affair with his assistant.
• You are not going to meet the man of your dreams hanging out with your gay guy friends in a gay bar. No doubt that it will be an outrageously fun night, but this not the “meet cute” that leads to lasting love.
• Oh yeah, “meet cutes” do not exist.
• When a friend says, “I know the perfect guy for you,” accept the set up. And if they forget, badger them relentlessly until you wear them down and they FINALLY arrange that first date. And don’t let the fact that he is not a Wilco fan be a deal breaker. 
• About deal breakers, you gotta limit the deal breakers. Back hair? Not a deal breaker. Trekkie? Not a deal breaker. Makes less money? Not a deal breaker. Criminal record? Okay, that could be a deal breaker.  Depends on the felony and how long it’s been since you’ve known the touch of a man.
• Can we go back to crushes real quick? Once you hit 35 you gotta stop it with celebrity crushes. It’s never gonna happen.  This is the one tip I can’t quite get. Crushes do help fill my brain when stuck in traffic or I can’t sleep. But they are as pointless as Bridget Jones’ Diary Three. (Really, Patrick Dempsey and Colin Firth fighting over a chubby alcoholic? Not bloody likely.)
• My final tip: you sometimes must leave the house and talk to people. A frightening concept for sure, but I have heard this works.

I believe my car has made me a nicer person. Why? I drive a very cute car, a 2014 VW Beetle convertible, light blue with a beige top. It is like waaaayyyyyy cute. So cute that strangers comment on how much they love my car. In parking lots, at stop lights and even country roads, I hear how cute my car is.  “I love your car.” “Your car is adorable.” “I wish I had that car.”

It seems like everyone’s first car was a VW Beetle. Strangers have shared their stories of their first VW. Usually someone a bit older than me, someone who’s heyday may have been around 1968 in San Francisco. Yep, ex-hippies living their retirement in New Jersey LOVE my car. My little bug is a reminder of their young, carefree days listening to the Dead while smoking their doobies.

The security guard at my office’s parking garage loves my cars. Her face explodes with a huge grin upon my 8:00 a.m. arrival. Gotta say, that smile makes for a brighter morning.

My Beetle has a name, which makes it all the more adorable. It’s Georgia, after another, more famous Beatle. My first Beetle was George; it was beige and black and had a more masculine vibe. The powder blue of my current vehicle is a bit more feminine, so it’s Georgia. When Georgia and I speed down the highway — top down, my hair flying, the tunes blasting and I’m singing along— it’s my joy. I think my evident joy combined to the sheer cuteness of my wheels inspires strangers to infer that I am a nice person. I’m not a horrible person, but I’m a little shy and talking is one of my least favorite things to do (hence a blog). But when sweet Georgia elicits squeals of joy and numerous punch-buggy-blues, it brings out my nice, friendly side.

I am, per the Myers-Briggs Scale, an introvert. On a scale of 1 – 30, my introversion scores at a 29.9999. This does not mean I spend my days sequestered away in my bedroom, reading Emily Dickenson and journaling. It means that dealing with people exhausts me. I like people, I just need my time alone. Time alone has been long drives with my sweet Georgia. Driving is the introverts refueling station. Time alone, time to gather my thoughts, time to rev up for the day or cool down when the day is done. When the weather is perfect and the tunes are rocking, I almost dread reaching my destination. Long drives don’t bother me with Georgia by my side.

You can understand why all this attention was a bit disconcerting at first. I had to interrupt my reverie to acknowledge their compliments. There I’d be, singing along loudly with my dear Wilco when some kind Bug fan would express his or her love for my car. I’d sigh, smile and say thanks. But something wonderful happened with each new greeting. I started to enjoy it. I may be an introvert, but I do like attention. And this is positive attention, even better!

Now I keep my eye out for those trippy Bug-lovers. I get a little thrill when a sophisticated business women hauls out and wails on the arm of her executive husband and shouts, “Punch Buggy Blue!!” I’ve embraced my fame as the owner of a cute car. I love the accolades, the fame, the prestige. And I love those warm, sunny days when the road is open, the journey long and the tunes blaring. There’s nothing that Georgie and I can’t conquer together. Even being nice.

Every small town has that one creepy house, graveyard or abandoned lunatic asylum. West Milford has the mysterious Clinton Road and the equally spooky Clinton Castle. Rumors said that it was built in the 1600s by some heretic settler who spent his nights in debauched activities with the local virgins and livestock. Actually, it was built in 1907; in 1600s the only people in the area where Ramapough Indians and a handful of Dutch settlers. But that’s not a creepy story. Except maybe for the Ramapough.

Long story short – Clinton Castle burned down, the land was turned over to the Newark Watershed and the Castle and the surrounding property was left undeveloped. With the abandoned, burned out remains of the Castle standing over the pristine Clinton reservoir, the surrounding woods became the playground for Satanists, witches, Nazis or the KKK. At least that’s the scuttlebutt. People said that there was a demonic presence that cast a deadly vibe over the area. Hogwash if you ask me.

Oh, I am sure there was some “Satanic” activities going on up there. By that I mean a bunch of 17-year old headbangers taking a midnight drive to the Castle for some Motley Crue, an Anton LeVay Satanic Bible reading, beer pong and mutual masturbation (but not in a gay way… kind of like Liberace was not in a gay way).

Every West Milford kid was obliged to have a Clinton Castle and/or Road experience – kind of like all New Jersians are required by law to be a Springsteen fan. Since it was the law, one beautiful September afternoon, Johnny (not his real name) drove me up to the Castle. (Being that my tale was on a beautiful September afternoon and not midnight on Samhain, you know this isn’t going to be creepy.)

Johnny may have had an ulterior motive driving me up on that lovely afternoon. If he scared me with tales of devil worshippers or Nazis, I would turn to him for comfort and maybe let him touch a boob. That was not going to happen. I liked Johnny’s friend, Ben (not his real name, either). Johnny was a drummer, Ben played guitar…really, what self-respecting, bubbly 16-year old girl would take a drummer or a guitar player. Not this one. Until Ben switched to the bass, then it was over. 

Back to Clinton Castle on that lovely September afternoon: Johnny started to see that his plan for afternoon dry humping was not gonna happen when, instead of being afraid, I was like, “ooohhhhh, pretty.” He jumped right into his tale from Clinton Castle. It goes something like this: The local satanic cult (aka drug-addled Ozzy fans with slightly homosexual tendencies) were having their ritual at the Castle (see: Black Sabbath tape and a big bag o’ weed). The high priest Kevin was all set. He was the high priest because he was 21 and could buy beer: thus “High Priest”. (He was reallyna “high” priest – see next paragraph.)

Any who…. here’s what happened, per Johnny:

Our teenaged “devil worshippers” had piled into their moms’ station wagons and taken that long drive up Route 23 to the dark, mysterious, badly paved Clinton Road. Over the reservoir and through the woods, these bad boys hiked up to the Castle for all the evilness.

Kevin had exceeded his high priest duties that night by bringing not just the beer and black t-shirt, but also the LSD. Once ensconced at the Castle and with Ozzy singing about the Dark One, the mind-altering badness commenced with High Priest Kevin quoting Anton LeVay (“It’s good to be bad,” “Christianity is crap,” “I like puppies”.) Moved by the happenings, one of the revealers, Mark, began having visions.

Johnny told me this story with complete seriousness – like he was channeling Stephen King: “Mark dropped all this LSD … and … saw…Satan…in …. Kevin’s…. FACE.”

I said, “Ummmmmmmm…what was the first part of that sentence?”

Johnny replied, “Mark dropped all this LSD?”

Me: “Ummmmmmmmm, maybe that had something to do with the satanic vision?”

Johnny, shaking his head emphatically, said, “Nooooooo. It was the dark magic.”

No, Johnny, it was hogwash. And when you told me that you gave another guy a platonic little bro-to-bro blow job, that’s gay – in a Liberace sort of way.

I did a quick stop by at the Panera for coffee and a scone. As I walked in, a young girl in a VW pulled into the parking lot. She parked and ran in, car running and purse left open on the front seat. I was so disturbed by this open invitation to robbery that I had to say something. “WHAT THE FUCK! YOU KIDDING ME WITH THIS SHIT!” is not what I said. I explained the numerous incidents of cars similarly parked being robbed. She thanked me and informed me that she’s not from here and had done that all the time back home. I replied with, “This is Jersey, honey. You can’t do that.”

On the drive home I pondered if I was perpetuating Jersey’s negative image to this visitor.  Jersey has a bad rap. With Snooki and the Turnpike, I get that. But two things to remember: Snooki was from Westchester and the Turnpike by Newark is trash, but drive a little south and it’s gorgeous. I like my state. We have it all, the mountains in the north, beaches in the south, cities in the east and farms and forests covering the west. I feel that I have the forum right here to be an advocate for the Garden State. So humor me as I clear up some misconceptions about red-headed step child of the Tri-State area.

Let’s start off with the idea of a Jersey Girl. We have two standard examples of this lady: Tom Waite’s over-worked single mother from the Asbury Park region and the big-haired, big-earringed, fake-tanned and fake-boobed loud mouths. I’ve lived in Jersey my whole life no one I know fits the first example and, okay quite a few fit the second. But the majority of the girls and women I know are far from the stereotypical “Jersey Girl.” I’m certainly not one. I have very flat hair, pale skin and (unfortunately) my boobs are real. I don’t know if I have a big mouth because it is quite rare that I use it.

I’m from the hills of northern New Jersey. My home town, West Milford is 80-square miles with 40 lakes and narrow roads the, according to the town’s website, “crisscross along scenic valleys and ridges.” When I was a girl, I didn’t spend my summer days on the board walk, but in the woods. My neighborhood was surrounded by them. We had deer in the backyard. And bear. A bear killed a cat in our driveway. So yes, there was crime, but mostly bear-on-cat. For those of us who grew up in those hills and moved away, the smell of skunk stuff in the summer air still reminds us of home.

This wooded, tranquil setting is hardly the breeding ground of the Jersey Girl. It spawns girls like me.

Now let’s move onto another misconception: the stench. Most visitors to New Jersey just fly into Newark Airport and then head to NYC. The only image they have of my state is the NJ Turnpike through Newark. That is the armpit of my state. It smells and is congested and loud. And it just represents only a few miles. My state can be beautiful. Don’t believe me? Here are some photos that are excellent depictions of all seasons and locales, from the hills of the north to the beaches of the south. This place is not so bad.

Okay, what about the attitude? This is something that may be real. I was told by a fella from Ohio that he could tell I was from Jersey. He could tell anyone from Jersey and that most non-Jersey residents can pick a Jersian out of line up. He never told me how, but I assume it’s the attitude. But do I have an attitude? No, you tell me. I believe that I don’t, but could be wrong so need your opinion.

I think we do have an attitude, but this is the most densely populated in the state; there is traffic everywhere. Some places are worse than others, but forfuckssake it took me forever to get here. And if we miss the turn, we can’t just make a left. We have to take a jug handle and then another jug handle to make one U-turn. You’d have an attitude too. The attitudes do vary, from Chris Christie bully to Barbara Morrison pansy. I do have an uncomfortable amount of friends who do tell-it-like-it-is, though. The attitude is real, but necessary.

My parting words for you are don’t believe the Jersey hype. This is a great place to live. You can ski, hike, fish, surf, pay HUGE takes and sit in traffic. But I love it and don’t plan to leave anytime soon. But seriously, don’t leave your running, unlocked car in the parking lot. That’s just effing stupid.

*******

P.S. I failed to mention Wilco or my current crush Raúl Esparza in this post. So here is my mention. Wilco and Raúl. There ya go.

Let me start by with a definition of GA. It is not some obscure legislation that I’m vehemently opposed to. It’s safe to say this this will be predominantly a non-political blog. The most you’ll get out of me it that Donald Trump’s an ass and we are all doomed if he’s elected.

No, “GA” refers to “General Admission” and relates to a concert with no assigned seating. The quality of your seat is based on how early you get on line. Or, if you are an unscrupulous, evil bastard and/or bitch, it’s based on you snaking your way through the crowd to get near the stage. To these malefactors I’ve one message: you are evil and there is a special place in Hell for you. I think it involves standing behind a pole or a really tall person for an eternity of concerts.(For more on this, see Concert Etiquette.)

I am a strong advocate of the GA option. I am Pro-GA; it may not always be my choice, but I believe that it is every fan’s right to choose what they do with their bodies. (There I go, getting all political again.) And trust me, doing the GA is rough on the body. In some locations, it means lining up several hours before the doors open; even more hours before the headliner takes the stage. For one Wilco show at the Wellmont Theater in Montclair, NJ, I was on line by 1:00 p.m., for a show that started at 8:00 p.m. I was with about 10 other devoted Wilconians who did the line for the chance to be “on the rail.” (“On the rail” means the front row, leaning in the barrier between the crowd and band. Valhalla for the dedicated fan.)  For someone in his/her twenties, sitting on the sidewalk outside the venue for up to five hours is a breeze; it gets a little tricky when you pass that 40-year mark. Then you tack on another two hours pogoing to the music, adds up to eight to nine hours on your feet. The small of your back feels Paul Bunyan reached in and tangled your muscles up in his huge fists. (Obviously, this analogy would not work with Donald Trump and his teeny hands.) Your thighs and calves tremble under your own weight. And your feet! Let’s just say that I’ve abandoned cute shoes for good, study sneakers and yet I can barely stand after the average GA show. But boy, those Wellmont shows (two shows, 10 hours on line; six hours of amazing music) were indeed well worth my humped back and slow pace for the next two days.

 So, yes there is pain, but there is also glory. It’s not just the music, but a unique camaraderie among the diehards. Most people reading this and many, many people in my life, greet my enthusiasm for the ultimate concert experience with skepticism and even a hint of “She’s crazy.” But the delight of being with liked minded-crazies is absolute. These folks “get it”. They don’t question my sanity. In fact, we revel in the insanity of the line. It’s nuts; yeah, we get that. But it’s our joy and you can’t take it.

And here is a con: people. Other fans are the best and worst part of a GA show. Above I mentioned the obnoxious demons who push to the front. I don’t need to discuss their reserved spot in the lowest pits of Hell any more. Let’s chat about talkers. How many times must I give you a nasty look over my shoulder before you zip it? My last comment is a request: if you are going to a sold-out, tight-packed GA show, for the love of God, please remember the deodorant and mouthwash. Please!

Next pro is proximity to our rock-n-roll gods. Depending on the venue, that’s really close. At Maxwell’s, Hoboken, N.J., I was able to count the patterns on Robyn Hitchcock’s psychedelic shirt and how many glasses of wine Peter Buck drank. OH AND PETER BUCK!!!! Let’s talk about that. So many years, I had seen him from a great distance at REM shows in large venues. But to see him – my rock-n-roll Holy Grail – from a few feet away shivered my soul.

Proximity leads to eye contact. If Peter Buck is my Holy Grail, then eye contact is a Viking ship to Avalon. Peter has given me some excellent eye over the years. (I must clarify that this has never been at REM shows, but with his other projects, e.g., The Minus Five.) So much so that I think he recognizes me. At least that’s what I tell myself. Robyn Hitchcock DOES recognize me. At a Maxwell’s show, he pointed out that I was not in my usual spot to his immediate left. Best. Show. Ever.

Proximity > Eye Contact > Personal Contact. That’s the dream, isn’t it? One day Jeff Tweedy will spot me on the rail and decide to be my BFF. (See previous post, Crushing It, on why it will go no further than BFFs.) I theorize that my love for these bands pours out of my hope to be part of that world, and not this mundane world. How exciting would be to break the monotony of corporate living with a rock star BFF? (This can also apply to actors, as in current crush Raúl Esparza.)

Here’s Raúl Esparza, just cos he’s so flipping hot.

On to more pros. Being so close to the music that it’s not just aural, but physical. When I feel the bass lines throb up through the floor, to my legs, up my spine and finally landing in and rattling my rib cage I’m part of the music. And then there is thing that happens with the mass of people, moments when we are all of the same heart and mind. We’re all feeling the music and just swaying to its call. It can look like a wave moving across the ocean. It takes my breath away and leaves me all teary. It’s absolute, pure joy and it takes all the crap of the world and pushes it outside for a few glorious hours.

Every time I leave a GA show pained, hunched and with ringing ears, I swear I will never do the line again. But it’s a safe bet that that next time Wilco’s in town, I will be on the rail.

I’ve always had crushes. I mean always. Not just when I was a preteen. I. Mean. Always. I think I may have come out of the womb crushing on the doctor.  If he had some big blue eyes and played guitar, I definitely had a crush on him.

I embarked on my crushing lifestyle with Johnny Cage (AKA Randolph Mantooth) from the 1970s show “Emergency”. I was four. In fact, I have a vivid memory of being furious at my parents when my younger brother was born because: A. He was a boy and B. After the slap-in-the-face no little sister, they had the audacity of of not naming him after my favorite make-believe paramedic. They named him after my Uncle Bill who just had open heart surgery. Those cruel tyrants.

And I was four was Bill was born. So before I could spell my name without a cheat sheet, I was attracted to a man. This is one girl who has never doubted her sexuality. (Not that there is anything wrong with that.)

Once I hit five and had the spelling of my name down pat, I discovered music and the beautiful, addictive world of musicians. I started with Davy Jones (so the whole “musician” thing is kind of argumentative). Then proceeded with the obvious, Paul McCartney. Although I had to conceal that. My two older sisters, Liz and Mary, and cousin, Jeannie had a rule that since I was the youngest, I got last pick of The Beatles. When we played Haunted Honeymoon, Liz got Paul and I was stuck with Ringo. There was also another rule when I played dolls with Mary that I had to be the boy, since – as Mary said – I had a deeper voice. I think my sisters may have been taking advantage of me.

My path through the forest of celebrity crushes took me to the age and era appropriate: Sting, ages 14-16, the mid-eighties. Then there was the age and era greatly inappropriate: Pete Townsend, ages 12-13, early eighties. (What?!!? Quadrophenia is genius.) I also flirted (in my dreams) with Harrison Ford and there were brief imaginary interludes with other 1980s New Wave/Alternative music icons such as John Taylor, Bono, and Peter Gabriel.

As I matured, so did my musical tastes and my crushes began to be based on talent, not just good looks. Thus began the era of average looking fellas such as Robyn Hitchcock and Peter Buck. Average looking, but brilliant musicians and/or songwriters. This carried me through college and into adulthood.

During that time, I had crushes on men that I had actually met, but had the same chances as I did with say, Davy Jones. There were those guys who were waaaayyyyyyy outta my league. Then there was the occasional attractive executive I’d see across the room, but never met. Then of course the obligatory married guy. But most of these were not reciprocated. So I would fall back on my celebrity crushes. How could a guy I never met reject me?

The most current musician crush has been Jeff Tweedy. Never heard of him? Oh, he is only this generation’s greatest songwriter. Gorgeous voice, too, and pretty darn good at that guitaring thing. Unfortunately, my dear Jeffy has let himself go over the past few years. This came crashing down on me when I attended a small concert of just about 30 people. There he was, singing his heart out about a foot away from me. But, slightly tubby with a shaggy beard and a stained t-shirt. I was left with the horrible realization that I was not physically attracted to him. When he’s onstage, he’s a cross between Han Solo, Indiana Jones and Eric from True Blood. Up close, not so much.

All this celebrity crushing has me wondering What the What!?!??! Here I am, a 45-year old woman, barreling down on 46, yet I still get these crazy crushes on dudes that I’ve a snowball’s chance in Hell with. Shouldn’t this have stopped when my teens years ended? What is the psychology that drives me to this?

I’ve been contemplating this a bit with my current celebrity crush, Raúl Espraza, the green-eyed, Cuban-American el tipo* who portrays ADA Barba on Law & Order: SVU. I blame this on my current status as unemployed. Why, you ask. Well, as you may know, binge TV is the unemployed girl’s best friend and worst enemy. I plowed through SVU’s seasons 15-17 in two weeks. Followed by three seasons of Hannibal in just over a week. (A disturbing show, but totally kept me on my diet.) I was keeping it all in check, when a Google search revealed that Mr. Espraza sings. Good God, acts AND sings, I was doomed to crushing.

All this bingeing and Google searches compound the fact that, being among the non-working population, there’s just not a lot going on in my brain. I have all this free mental space that’s occupied by inappropriate thoughts of the ADA.

Back to the psychology of all these pointless crushes. We have the first factor of excess mental space filled with images of Raúl Esparza singing a sexy, salsa version of “O Holy Night”. (Is it a sin to think “O Holy Night” is sexy?)  The second factor may be the huge disappointment of what has been my romantic history. Long story short, lots and lots of rejection. Maybe celebrity crushes are my defense mechanism against getting hurt again. Maybe it’s about maintaining my independence and not have to be accountable to anyone else. Maybe I just have way to high standards.

Who knows? I’ll think on this more as I set up my Google Alert for “Raúl Esparza”.

*El Tipo is Spanish for “Hunk”.