Category Archives: Punk Rock

In the Recording Studio with Tom Petersson from Cheap Trick: My first Rock n Roll CRUSH.

2 Comments

In 1990, at the age of 24, when I began to record my first solo album with Disney’s Hollywood Records, I was pleasantly surprised by my Producer Julian Raymond… who knew about my first “secret” Rock n Roll crush.

He knew that THIS band had been my first arena show EVER…

He knew that I still had all of their pop-punk buttons hidden in my ballerina jewelry box…

He knew that when I was 13, I would often lie on my bed and sing their lyrics, while holding their record cover close to my face, and kissing my “secret” Rock n Roll crush, during all of the silent pauses between everyone of their hit songs.

Yes…  he knew all about my affair with Tom Petersson, bass player of Cheap Trick, and it seemed that he had somehow become “Wish Master” the man who had the ability to grant me my Rock n Roll fantasy: a date with Tom Petersson.

“I have someone coming down to the studio to record with you this next week,” Julian said.

“Really?” I asked.

“Yeah,” Julian smirked. “I think you might have heard of him. His name is Tom Petersson.”

I felt like my head was actually going to explode.

I tried to play it cool, like all good Rock and Roll musicians are supposed to do, but my “Folk Roots” must have kicked in because I became an emotional mess in a matter of seconds.

“TOM PETERSSON?” I shouted. “TOM? MY TOM?”

I never thought I would hear a man giggle, but Julian actually did, as he left me in the recording studio and walked back into the control booth.

I watched as he pushed the control room sound button and said to me, “Yep. Your Tom Petersson.”

My heart was racing.

I had been madly in love with Tom Petersson all of my 7th grade year and way into the summer.

He was beautiful to me in every way.

His dark hair.

His blue eyes.

His flirt of a smile and of course…

the biggest seducer of them all…. his talent.

Tom Petersson.

My secret Rock n Roll crush.

With me.

An entire week.

Working on MY MUSIC.

It was too good to be true.

I’d like to say that I didn’t primp for the big event with Tom but… I did.

My X hadn’t seen me so pumped up about “being with a man” since our wedding day.

“He’s just a bass player,” he mumbled. His lead singer ego all in an uproar.

I gave him a big hug, “You’re my man,” I whispered and watched as he smiled and toddled off to go play with one of his tube amps.

Don’t get me wrong… I adored and loved my lead singer husband, but there was no way in hell I could tell him that all of my life I had been secretly in love with bass players… yes.. the list is actually legendary and no need to name names… you all know who you are… and Tom Petersson was at the top of my list.

Bass players always seemed so mellow, laid back… cool.

They dropped a goose egg here or there…

They never stole the limelight…

They kept the rhythm going and popped out of the mix every once in awhile to shine.

So I shaved my legs, and curled my hair, and picked out my cutest dress to wear the first day that I would meet my big crush.

And when Tom came into the studio… you could imagine my surprise… when the first thing I noted was his size: not much taller than me actually. I had always pictured him larger than life… but as he strutted towards me, I could see that he had this charisma about him that seemed to radiate throughout the room.

He walked forward, skinny jeans, expensive London mod boots, tight black t-shirt, open white suit jacket…  his hair cropped punky and short now… but still dark… and his eyes… still a brilliant blue and said, “D.D.!” as if I had always been and would always be his best friend as he reached out, hugging and kissing me, until I thought I really would just lay down happily and die.

I rarely get tongue-tied and I rarely get star-struck but for a moment… I felt myself turn back into a 13-year-old DORK, though I tried to contain it, as I gave him a great big smile before saying, “Tom!” Just a little too loudly… and a little too breathy… giving away a bit of my junior high school persona.

“Can’t wait to play on your tracks,” he said. “Good stuff.”

And I thought that of all the validation I had ever received in my life time, to have one of your star musician crushes tell you that your music was “good” basically “worthy of their attention” that they would take time out of their superstar life to come and play with you… well I tell you… it was the best validation ever…

“Pull my finger,” Tom said abruptly, causing me to immediately step out of my starstruck validation moment, while realizing that his voice had the same rough and raspy texture as David Johansen’s from the New York Dolls.

“Excuse me?” I said.

“Pull it,” Tom repeated.

I hesitated a moment before I reached out and grabbed his finger, and the next thing I knew, Tom Petersson blasted out a terrific fart.

His laugh had a lot of bass and a booming tenor… it was a guffaw that filled the room.

“Don’t you just love fart jokes,” he said as he walked into the recording studio and got his bass out and ready to play.

I looked at Julian who said, “Don’t you just love the reality of the situation?”

I’m sure he meant it to be facetious… but actually… I did.

To find out that Tom Petersson was just “one of the guys” a down to earth, super cool, “Good Time Charlie” made me beam from ear to ear.

I couldn’t imagine what the week would hold: the possibilities of fun and trouble were obviously endless.

The next day, I rushed to the studio to be with Tom and found that he had brought me a present.

“D.D.” he said. “You have to see this.” He handed me a video tape.

I was afraid to touch it.

“It isn’t porno,” he said. “It’s Robert Tilton.”

Okay… so maybe I was confused. Did Tom Petersson, my Rock n Roll crush… my Musical God of Sex, Drugs and Rock n Roll just give me a tape showcasing an evangelical television preacher?

“Watch it,” he said. “Actually,” He grabbed my hand and dragged me from the studio, “Let’s find a TV and watch it together now.”

We rushed down the hallway, and broke into an office, where we found a TV and VCR and popped the tape into the player.

“You’re gonna love this,” he howled as he grabbed two chairs and pulled me down to sit next to him.

I watched as the tape began to roll and Robert Tilton appeared. He was preaching about the word of the Lord when suddenly he stopped, squinted his eyes to pause for spiritual emphasis, and then a loud fart sound emanated from his ass.

Tom squealed with laughter.

“Isn’t it great?” he said. “Someone took all of his TV sermons and added fart tracks behind it. Isn’t it the best thing ever?”

I can’t say I wasn’t enjoying myself… I was… I was alone with Tom Petersson, I was sharing a personal moment with him, ANYTHING would have made me happy but… I couldn’t help but wonder for a moment, What if Robin Zander were in the room with us? Did he have the same bathroom mentality?

Tom shook my hand, sure that I wasn’t paying proper attention.

“Look D.D.!” He shouted, “Look!”

I watched again as Robert Tilton paused for spiritual significance and a long rapid series of fart sounds descended upon us.

Tom could barely breath. He actually slapped his skinny little Rock n Roll knee, shook his head and sighed before saying, “I just love this,”  and I felt a sudden ache in my heart.

How I wish I could have been on the road with Tom circa 1977.

I bet he was so much fun to travel with.

He must have been the prankster. The trickster. The one always up for a good time. I bet he had never been mean to a fan in his life time. He was everything I could ever want him to be.

Our week together passed by quickly… one prank after another: fart jokes, pages of porn magazines taped under office desks… and in cartage containers… and stuffed into acoustic sound holes of guitars… and when it was time for him to leave… I knew how much I would miss him.

“Stop it,” he said in his deep booming voice. “I’ll see you soon. You’ll come to a show right? We can hang out. Have fun.”

And there it was again… my 13-year-old fantasy come true.

And as the years have passed… it’s been nice to hear from friends in the business that he still asks after me… still rants and raves about our great time together in the studio that week.

And fart jokes and all… my Rock n Roll crush is still… my beautiful legendary gentleman.

Why We Don’t Take Blue Xanax on a School Day

Leave a comment

Anyone who knows me knows… that I would never purposely set out to get a teacher high.

Seriously…. Not on a holiday.

Not on a weekend.

And definitely not on a school day.

I’m wild.

I’m outrageous.

I’m pretty unpredictable… but after a lifetime surrounded by addicts and recovering addicts… it would be the last thing I would ever do.

Trust me.

It was an accident.

I swear.

It was many years ago, before my current job at MHS, and three of my best friends, let’s just call them Mr. D, Mr. C, and Ms. E were all struggling with anxiety.

There has been a long running joke in education that Xanax is “teacher’s candy” and during hard times, many of us have dabbled in anti-anxiety medication, doctor prescribed of course, to make it through a particularly trying school year.

Well, this year must have been a doozy because EVERYONE was packing.

I, being somewhat of a Xanax “light weight” had been prescribed the white pills: 0.25 mg. basically… the lowest possible dose.

“You can take up to three a day,” my doctor said. “For anxiety.”

“Three?” I looked at the bottle suspiciously.

“D.D.” he said. “This is a very low dose.”

Now, I’m not sure what a “low” dose is to him, but after I returned to the safety of my home, I tried one and not twenty minutes later, my husband found me on the front porch, basically having some weird alter-ego karaoke session with me, myself, a guitar, and a blasting rendition of “Brick House.”

I vowed that I would never take one of these pills during a school day EVER.

The thought of what I might do during class time, while hopped up on Xanax, was enough to cause my anxiety to rocket through the roof.

What if I stole the little security golf cart and raced it around the campus?

What if I ran up to the rally stage, grabbed the microphone from ASB, and screamed out the lyrics to GOD SAVE THE QUEEN while the cheerleaders looked on in horror and the quad broke into a riot?

What if I crank called the Principal with one of those really HOKEY Popsicle stick jokes: “Hey Principal Smith… where do baby cows eat?… In the CALVE-A-TERIA” and laughed hysterically until Nurse Anderson had to come and take me away.

I could just see Tim Grobaty’s article in The Press Telegram looming in front of me: BELOVED HIGH SCHOOL TEACHER FOUND DOPED UP AND DROOLING ON THE FOOTBALL FIELD: P.S. NO THIS IS NOT THE D.D. WOOD I KNOW AND LOVE. I  HAVE NEVER ASSOCIATED WITH THIS WOMAN. LEAVE ME OUT OF THIS.

I shudder still at the thought of it.

So, I left my pills at home and learned to manage my school day without medication.

Six months later, Xanax at bedtime was a regular routine, I barely reacted to the dose, and my anxiety reduced significantly from several months of “good sleep.”

The school day suddenly seemed like a breeze to get through.

That was… until the phone call.

It was a Friday I believe when I received the call in my classroom from Ms. E.

“Room 525,” I said as I answered the school phone.

“D.D.” Ms. E said panic obvious in her voice. “You take Xanax right?” she asked.

I wasn’t sure if this was some type of trick question: Was this a PTA intervention? Had the militant helicopter parents found out I was a closet Xanax addict or was my friend really in need?

“Yeah,” I said as I tried not to sound hesitant.

“I need one,” she said, almost in tears now. “I can’t make it through the day. I feel like I’m going to have a panic attack. Please may I have one.”

“I don’t bring them to school,” I said. “I only take them at home.”

“Shit,” she barked in a harsh whisper. “Shit. Shit. Shit.”

I wasn’t sure how to respond at first but then the magic light switch flipped on in my brain.

“Mr. C packs,” I whispered. “Do you want me to ask him for one?”

“Yes,” she practically came through the phone her “yes” so emphatic.

“Hang on,” I said. “I have conference period in five minutes. I will grab one from Mr. C and bring it to you.”

“Okay,” she whispered before I heard her shout at her class, “Sit down! Sit down! You people have no understanding of what it means to be ME RIGHT NOW!”

Crap, I thought… I need a pill and fast.

The bell rang and I hustled the children out as quickly as possible before I bolted down to Mr. C’s room.

“Ms. E’s having a panic attack,” I blurted out. “She needs something.”

Mr. C, on conference period as well, gave me a knowing nod before he reached in his California Teacher’s Association satchel and pulled a small blue pill out of a plastic baggie.

“Can she handle a blue?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” I shrugged. “I know she takes Xanax on a regular basis so I guess so.”

I didn’t know what a blue Xanax was and though I am a teacher, me… the MORON in this scenario, didn’t bother to ask.

I squirreled away the little blue pill in my hand and palmed it all the way out to the far bungalows that sat practically on the baseball field.

“Here,” I handed it to her. “She popped it in her mouth without a thought, took a giant swig of water off of her bottle, and smiled as it seemed the “magic little pill” was already working.

“Okay everyone,” she said sweetly to her group of students. “Let’s learn about the Donner Party and why you should never eat anyone’s ass.”

I caught myself making a face… maybe this hadn’t been such a good idea but hell, I wasn’t exactly the cornerstone of Conservative teaching… maybe this was a typical day in Ms. E’s room.

“Whatcha doing?” Mr. D said as he walked up behind me.

Mr. D and I had been program friends for several years and had spent many an after school session at our local Al-Anon meeting ranting about our addiction to addicts and our need for control.

“Nothing,” I said, unsure if I should tell Mr. D that I had given Ms. E someone else’s drugs, afraid to just come clean. I mean, he was on “the Xanax” like everyone else… but then… the moment passed and I let the thought go.

“Drive with me up to Starbuck’s?” He asked.  “So I can get a coffee and have a smoke?”

“Sure,” I said and we both left campus to enjoy our conference period away from our busy school day.

We were gone I’d say 15 minutes; just long enough for Mr. D to get in a whole smoke while we sat waiting for coffee in the Starbuck’s drive-thru.

When we returned to our campus, we made a full circle of our school in the car, and then pulled up to park next to Ms. E’s bungalow.

We were shocked by our immediate view.

Ms. E was not in her classroom teaching.

Ms. E was hanging over the railing of the bungalow ramp, swinging her entire upper half of her body over the rail and trying to touch her toes with her pudgy little hands before she would rise up, throw her arms up into the air, and then swing them back down and try to touch her toes again.

“Wooooooo Eeeeeee!” She said each time she raised back up and saw me and Mr. D staring at her from the car. “HEY YOU TWO!” She shouted. “Wooooooooooo Eeeeeeeeee!”

Now, I am always the first to blame in these situations… known as the Punk Rock I Love Lucy… once told by a former boss that I ALWAYS LOOKED GUILTY OF SOMETHING and today was no exception.

Mr. D took one look at Ms. E, before turning to me and shouting, “WHAT THE HELL DID YOU GIVE HER?”

“Xanax,” I said trying not to sound like Curtis Mayfield’s Pusherman. “It was just Xanax.”

“What color was it?” He asked.

“Blue.”

“YOU GAVE HER A BLUE?” He shouted. “A fucking blue? That’s like eight times the size of the dose that we take you idiot!”

I’d like to say that I was stunned at that moment. Even… apologetic for my actions… but really, I was watching Ms. E and wondering how the hell she was still standing after such a massive dose of Xanax and wondering how Mr. C was able to pop blues on a daily basis while making it through, what appeared to me, a “sober” school day.

Mr. D was out of the car in two seconds.

He ran across the field and gathered Ms. E up, as if she was a ball of limp bread dough, while I stood at the curb and watched him carry her past me and hurriedly put her in the car.

“Cover her class,” he shouted.

Ms. E was already enjoying making fish faces at me through the car window: cheeks puffed out, hands pressed against the door glass, drool running down into the door channel, until Mr. D slammed the car into gear, blasted away from the school and they disappeared from view.

“Jesus,”  I whispered to myself as I locked the school gate and headed into her classroom to finish out the teaching day.

“Where’s Ms. E?” the students asked, each small group hard at work on their Donner Party Informational Chart: Why We Don’t Eat Asses.

“Ummmm,” I said, as I quickly walked around the room collecting the work, afraid that it might be used against us in a court of law, “She wasn’t feeling well so she went home for the day. Pass me your classwork. Ms. E told me to give everyone an “A” on this assignment and you get to have free time for the rest of the period.”

By their reactions you would have thought that I had declared school over for LIFE.

There were no complaints, no worries… cell phones popped out, ipods popped in, random conversations sparked up around the room.

Teachers crave Xanax…. and students “jones” for “free time”… for them… it’s the most addicting drug.

After a weekend of recovery for Ms. E, and an Al-Anon meeting where Mr. D “called me out” on my actions in front of my sponsor, we all returned to school and went back to business.

Nothing ever came from the incident, and blue Xanax was never again given… or asked for… at school.

Well… at least not between us teachers… I can’t speak for the administration.

Threatening Dylan with Baby Farming

2 Comments

When Dylan was in 6th grade, he could quite often be a little shit.

Not that he can’t be a little shit now at 22, but middle school always tends to bring the “beast” out in children.

I don’t even remember what he was doing the day that I finally snapped.

But whatever it was… it sent me over the edge.

He made just one too many snide remarks…

Or farted too close to where I was sitting, one too many times before he laughed and ran away…

Or begged and screeched to go to the internet cafe and play Counter Strike for like… ten hours straight… when he hadn’t even completed his English project but, whatever it was… I had HAD it.

I turned and looked at his pudgy little pre-adolescent face and said, “You know what? I should have Baby Farmed you.”

He stopped… confused… and then… immediate silence followed.

“Baby Farm?” he said. “What is a Baby Farm?”

“Baby farming,” I said knowingly. “Go look it up.” I gave him a  sinister glance as I walked quietly from the room and disappeared.

One of the best things about knowing random facts of obscure information is using it against others and yes… I am not above using information to mess with my own children.

In fact, I think it is imperative to give them something to think about… a way of humbling them if necessary and reminding them that education truly is power and that I can, and will break you with it if necessary.

Ten minutes later Dylan found me out in the front yard working on the garden.

I had totally forgotten our previous conversation by then, happy to be alone and away from my obstinate young son, soothed in my small task of arranging my numerous brightly colored gnomes strategically throughout my garden.

Dylan walked up to me and stood by my side. “That was the meanest thing you ever said to me,” he whispered.

I looked up from my work and said, “Huh?”

“Baby farming,” he said. His pudgy little face now crumpled into a sad frown. “I can’t believe you used that against me.”

“How long did it take you to find out what it was?” I asked.

“Five minutes on the computer.”

“Wow,” I smiled. “Impressive.”

He paused… pleased that I had admired his ability to glean information so quickly… but unable to forgive me yet… or give in.

“It was still the meanest thing you ever said to me,” he mumbled.

“Glad you didn’t end up in the Hudson circa 1887 right?”

He made a face, sure that he could not win this argument but unwilling to let it go, “I could swim when I was one you know,” he shouted before he stomped off, to God knows where, to create soda bottle bombs, Pokemon drawings, and ponder a world where Baby Farming was once a norm, leaving me to smile at the joy my offspring brought to me each time he chose to challenge his mother’s authority.

Lexi Taunts Nana with Lesbianism to find out her True Views on Gay Relationships

Leave a comment

This is Lexi.

Lexi is my daughter.

She is not gay although she is gay friendly and often looks like this…

Which often causes quite a stir in both the straight and gay community.

Lexi is what they call “a triple threat:”

Super beautiful.

Super smart.

Super good at putting people in their place.

And I’m of course… super proud of her.

Now Nana, is Lexi’s grandmother.

Nana likes to sit in the blue chair each day, watch old Turner Classic Movies on TNT, and comment on “The Gays.”

Nana supposedly loves “The Gays.”

She supports gay marriage.

She supports gay entertainment.

She supports gays in the military.

She smiles when “The Gays” come to the house and dote on her, often offering her boxes of chocolate and homemade pies whipped up from Martha Stewart’s “secret recipe.”

Oh Nana and her gays.

Now, I had never really had any doubts about my mom and her love for the gays.

She owned The Birdcage and watched it regularly.

She thought Tom Hanks totally nailed it in Philadelphia.

She loved Montgomery Cliff in, A Place in the Sun, and she was always so loving and kind with all of my gay friends.

Once, at Christmas, I had given my gay friend, Ryan Daniels a blow-up male porno doll as a joke, and sat him at the dining room table next to me, as I pretended to feed him candy canes when Nana, came down the stairs, pointed her angry finger towards the blow-up doll and said, “Get him out of here now. I hate that guy. He is super creepy.”

Ryan and I, worried we had finally pushed my mom over the edge, hurried to remove the offending plastic doll from the area when my mom stopped us by shouting, “Not him!” and we watched as her finger pointed to the next chair at the table. The chair where my new blow-up, life-sized Sponge Bob doll was seated. “That guy,” she said sternly. “He’s the one. Get him out! Get that creepy guy out of here right now.”

Ryan could not stop crying with laughter all the way through Christmas breakfast and way into the eggnog portion of the morning.

“Your mom is just so great,” he whispered. “God, I wish my parents had been okay with me being so openly gay.”

Lexi however was not fooled by my mother’s overtures.

She had a sinking suspicion that Nana might be a closet “phobe”  and told me this one day in passing conversation, but I was sure that she was wrong.

“Are you?” Lexi demanded of me. “Are you really sure that Nana totally supports gays and lesbians?”

“Well yeah…” I said. “What about the blow-up doll at Christmas? Or how she loves The Birdcage?  And remember how crazy she was for Greg Louganis? I mean, you were only a year old and she wanted to sign you up for diving so that you could be just like him.”

Lexi looked at me like I had just had a big drink of the Jim Jones Kool-aid.

“You, are completely delusional,” she said. “Watch this.”

I watched as Lexi removed her jacket and readied for battle.

I could see Nana, sitting in the blue recliner, her little bare feet up on the foot rest of the chair, her little toes wiggling in time to Robert Preston singing “76 Trombones” from The Music Man and I thought, You’re gonna lose this one little girl. I should have bet money. No way is Nana anti-gay.

Lexi pulled up one of the old wooden chairs from the dining room table close to Nana’s seat, and said, “Nana, can I talk to you for a minute. It’s super important.”

Nana pushed the mute button on the remote and turned to look at her favorite grand baby.

“What is it sweety?” she asked.

“Well Nana,” Lexi said. “You know, I’ve been looking for the right person to date for a long time now, and I finally found someone I really love.”

“Oh that’s nice,” Nana said and I saw her little toes start to wiggle once again, as if all was right in Nana’s world.

“Yes,” Lexi said as she cast a sideways glance towards me, an evil glint in her eye, and then she went for the kill. “Yes Nana,” she said. “My new girl is really beautiful and super smart and I can’t wait for you to meet her.”

“What did you just say?” My mom asked. Her toes now stopped and completely rigid.

“I said I’m in love with a girl. Yes Nana, I’m a lesbian.”

“WHAT A CROCK OF SHIT!” My mom screamed at her. “YOU ARE NOT A LESBIAN!”

Lexi stood up, grabbed Nana and gave her a big hug and kissed her before she said, “Come on Nana. You know I’m just teasing you. I’m not a lesbian. You know I like penis too much to be a lesbian.”

“That’s right!” Nana said as if she was listening to a testimonial in church and couldn’t wait to shout out her big “AMEN!”

Lexi walked over to me, grabbed a handful of peanut M & M’s from Nana’s candy dish before she popped one in her mouth, got really close to my face and then said, “See? I told ya.”  Before she strutted out the back door with a loud obnoxious laugh that seemed to scream… “I got you so good” as she headed off to God knows where.

I can’t really tell you what I felt in that moment:

Shock that she had been right.

Amazement that my daughter actually said out loud to my mother that she liked penis too much and my mother “Amened” it with righteous glee.

Or that all this was taking place while I was listening to one of the gayiest of gay men, Robert Preston, sing songs from The Music Man, as it all went down under one roof.

I must admit… it was a little too much… even for me.

Just then my cell phone rang and I picked it up to hear Lexi cackling on the other end of the line.

“She’s gay friendly if it isn’t one of her own,” Lexi chortled. “It’s all fun and games until someone goes gay in the family.”

“Or brings home Spongebob,” I mumbled. “Don’t forget Spongebob.”

“Or Spongebob,” Lexi agreed.

I hung up the phone and went back to my room, to look at my Spongebob doll and ponder my mother’s tricky gay ways.

The True Story of Nico’s Beaver

Leave a comment

Before Barbara Kramer was a famous Rock and Roll star touring the world with her band, Avi Buffalo, she was my student.

If you were to ask any of my former students what they remembered most about my class, their first answer would not be, “Studying Catcher in the Rye” or “Learning about John Adams” but would have something to do with the stories I tell them about my life.

They all loved my stories and over the years, I got into a habit of always starting off my class lesson with a “Story of the Day.”

Today, I was reminded of one of those stories by my friends: Rodney Zaccardo and Steve Hendrix.

No, they are not former students, but Rodney almost became a former friend, when he posted a photo on my Facebook page of a bar of soap titled, “Filthy Beaver” with my name tagged to the beaver.

Steve, smart man that he is, commented with, “I don’t know where to begin…” and I honestly didn’t know how to respond myself.

What the hell was Rodney thinking?

Did he really just call my beaver filthy on Facebook?

Luckily, my friend Margie, who was sitting across the table from me working, looked up from her computer and said, “He’s talking about your beaver. You know.. the one that has it’s own Facebook page. That beaver that travels around the world with the band.”  She then looked back down at her computer again before I heard her laugh and whisper, “Dork.”

I felt like an idiot for not getting the joke.

One phone call and two text messages from Rodney later… I realized he was worried I hadn’t gotten the joke either.

But don’t worry Rodney.

You’re not in trouble.

I get the joke.

The whole thing with the beaver started because of my chihuahua, Nico.

Nico loves to carry around little toys. He has a buzzy bee, two brightly colored wiener dogs, a piece of a stuffed tiger, just one leg, that he refuses to give up, and… a beaver.

These toys are usually scattered all around the house. And Nico, likes to pick one up and then drop it down to pick up another, changing them randomly, as he shows them off to house guests and moves then about, unwilling of course, to share them with any of the other dogs.

Yes… he is a stuffed animal hoarder.

One day when I was getting ready to go teach school, I heard a loud “SLAM”  from the living room and then silence.

I ran out of the hall and looked around but saw nothing but Nico’s beaver on the floor and Nico, standing close to Nana’s lounge chair wagging his tail as he seemed to look off into the backyard.

Now, it was rare to walk into the living room and not find my 84-year-old mother sitting in her blue lounge chair watching TV but, it was even stranger to walk into the living room and find the chair empty AND the room in complete silence:

No Two and a Half Men blasting from Nana’s TV cabinet.

No dogs barking for Nana’s McDonald’s breakfast meal.

Just a beaver lying in the middle of the room and a small chihuahua looking actually, quite suspicious.

Something inside of me told me to call out for my mom and so… I did.

“Mom?”

Immediately I saw my mother’s pudgy little grandma arm waving at me from behind the blue lounge chair.

“I’m over here!” She shouted as I watched her hand flap back and forth more like a windshield wiper than an actual signal of salutation.

“What the hell are you doing over there?” I asked as I hurried towards her and worked to pull her back up.

“Oh,” she said as I righted her and sat her back in her recliner, “I tripped over that damn beaver.”

I looked at the stuffed beaver lying on the floor.

I looked at Nico still wagging his tail, pretending to be the perfect dog in every way.

My mom looked at me as if I was stupid because I hadn’t responded quick enough to what she just said, so she rolled her eyes and snapped, “That thing!” as she pointed at the stuffed lump on the floor. “Nico’s beaver!”

For a moment, my mind went to one of those weird places… a place where it associates words with a specific period of time, a place where random images collide with random events… a place where you really don’t want your mind to go and suddenly… I pictured my mom tripping over a giant 70’s porno bush: Nico’s beaver.

I could see it vividly.

The giant vagina somehow detached and misplaced in our living room…

My mom, shaking her head in exasperation as if she knew it had been there all along hiding in the tri-colored shag carpet…

And somehow… she had just forgotten about it while worrying about other 70’s calamities such as my dad’s polyester pants or Dr. John’s latest hit: Right Place Wrong Time.

I couldn’t stop laughing.

I was trying to shake this horrific image out of my mind.

You never EVER want to put “Mom” and “porno” in the same thought box or even in the same paragraph for that matter, and the thought of the ridiculousness of what I was invisioning only made the whole situation worse.

Finally, my mother became totally annoyed with me and said, “I’m fine now. Just go to school. It’s not that funny you know.” Which made me laugh all the harder as I left the house and drove over to my classroom.

When I told the kids my “Story of the Day” of course I had to share Nico’s Beaver.

Everyone was in hysterics except for Barbara Kramer who seemed to be skeptical. Her eyes narrowed as she ran her tongue over her braces, before saying, “Is there really a Nico’s beaver?” with a smack of her lips.

The entire class paused.

They had never even considered the idea that I might be lying, that I might actually just make all of this shit up like a comedy routine I was trying out on unsuspecting English classes.

They all turned to me, begging for confirmation that I was telling the truth, and so, I gave Babs my best, “I’m so disgusted with your question face” before I said, “Yes Barbara, of course Nico has a beaver. Why would I make that up?”

She continued to look at me as if I was a fraud but by then, the rest of the class was convinced I was definitely telling stories in the genre of “non-fiction” and so we moved on for the day.

Weeks later, Barbara came to my house to play with my son Dylan. They were both in a band called “Return to Radio” and  practice would take place regularly at our house.

Babs walked inside and met my mom.

“Hi Nana,” she said as she waved to her.

“Oh, hi honey!” My mom waved back.

And then Nico ran up to Babs: growling and wagging, fussing and barking.

She stared at him, as if he somehow had the answer to her question regarding my authenticity as a story teller.

Was I a true raconteur? Or… was I a cheap side-show sham?

I knew what I had to do.

“Nico,” I said. “Go get your beaver! Go get your beaver!”

Nico shot off across the living room floor as if he was in a dog show and knew he was about to win first place for performing this trick.

We watched as he rooted about in his little doggy bed of toys and then plucked his favorite worn brown and beaten beaver out of the batch and rushed back to show it proudly to Babs.

Her face radiated bemusement. She couldn’t contain her glee.

She looked at me as if I was the Holy Grail of Honest Teachers before reaching down and taking the beaver from Nico’s mouth.

“Nico’s beaver,” Babs whispered and the rest, is history.

Babs joined Avi Buffalo. She began to tour the world, and she took Nico’s beaver with her… photos of him appeared with Ben Stein and on ampitheater stages in Canada, Europe, and everywhere in between.

He became legendary, that beaver, and I think Babs loved him. I think that beaver kept her grounded as she learned the world of music first hand… on stage…. and that beaver… always represented love, truth, family, and home.

Dylan Refuses Me a Bun

2 Comments

I don’t ask for much as a parent.

Well, at least I don’t think I ask for much as a parent.

Dylan and Lexi may choose to disagree with this statement and it’s fine if they do because I AM THE PARENT and I don’t care.

Every once in awhile I ask for a minor thing to be done:

Pick up the dog poop.

Change the Sparklett’s water bottle for Nana.

Take out the trash.

Don’t forget to move the car for street sweeping and…

For God’s sake give me a bun when I ask for one.

It was Dylan who refused me the bun.

Dylan.

All I wanted was one bun for my chicken.

One bun.

It was Matilda’s first night at our house.

She was a guest.

I had no chicken feed and thought how nice it would be to give her a lovely fresh bun.

Dylan actually snatched the bun bag from my hands.

“You can’t have a bun,” he said and I looked at his face and saw that he was totally serious. “I have exactly eight buns and exactly eight hot dogs. Do you understand?”

Oh, I understood.

Mr. Obsessive-Compulsive was refusing to give me a bun.

Me!

His mother.

I couldn’t believe it.

He was lucky to be alive.

If I hadn’t grown him in my magical uterus he wouldn’t even be standing here with a bag of buns in his grubby little hands… the little shit.

I almost got in a knock-down-drag-out with him right then and there but we had company… not just Matilda… but a whole house load of guests. So, I had to let it go and I honestly planned to let it go forever until I found the bun bag in the trash can exactly one week later.

The whole bun bag.

All eight buns… moldy and in the trash can.

I looked at those buns and I felt like they were mocking me.

Dylan would pay for this injustice.

I waited until he was making his way through the house, walking with one of his little band friends, when I stopped him, pulled the bag from the trash can, and in my best motherly voice said, “What is this?”

Dylan looked at the bag as if he was unable to fathom the alien object in my hand.

“What?” he said but I could tell from his tone he knew he was busted.

“I asked you for one bun. One bun! And look,” I thrust the bag towards his face. “You didn’t even eat one. Not one! Here they sit, molding in the trash.”

“I’m gonna feed them to the ducks,” Dylan said.

This sent me over the edge.

“The ducks? The ducks!” I shouted. “You wouldn’t even give me one for my chicken!”

“Well, you fed your friends my spaghetti sauce!” He snapped, throwing out this minor counter point as if he could win an argument against me with such a weak comeback.

“How much is your rent?” I asked.

He was silent before mumbling, “It was just a bun.”

“You’re right,” I said. “Just a bun.”

We stood quietly for a moment pondering that thought before Dylan said, “We’re going out to the garage to practice now.”

I watched as he walked away wondering what he might refuse me next:

A rascal?

An adult diaper?

My pills and ice cream when I’m 102 and unwilling to eat anything else?

I could see now that I would have to keep my eye on this little man.

It starts with a bun and ends up with a trip to the convalescent hospital for a nice long vacation.

Oh… but he had underestimated his opponent.

My wrath would be legendary.

I would be the old woman who would pee as I walked down the supermarket aisle each time my son took me to the store.

I would be the old woman who would sit in the back seat of his mini-van and flip people off in other cars for no apparent reason.

I would be the old woman who would feed his children candy and play Grand Theft Auto with them when they turned 4.

Refuse me a bun.

We’ll just see about that.

Anthony Kiedis Asks Me to Brush and Braid His Hair Resulting in a Shouting Match and Mark Johnson as a Naughty Go-Between

Leave a comment

Before the Red Hot Chili Peppers became Rock and Roll namesakes they were just a bunch of goofy guys, playing music and hoping to reach the big brass ring of Super Stardom like everyone else in our music scene.

In the mid-1980’s they were touring with T.S.O.L. and Fishbone and since I was dating the lead singer of T.S.O.L., the man that later became my husband, I was at the show.

I have never been that smitten or taken with rock stars… growing up around “band boys” you are privy to a decent amount of information that takes away the glitter and the glamour of the stage and brings the “fantasy” down to earth…. trust me…. when you watch many of your family members and good friends throwing their talent away on drug and alcohol addiction… the fun goes right out the window.

But at this time, we were all still young and beautiful, still having fun in our world of music and mayhem, and not really concerned much with the future. Most of the players in our group were “interchangeable” which is a really nice way of saying there was a lot of inner circle incestuous dating going on… and because of this… people often kept an “eye” on their significant others for fear that they might pop off with someone much more interesting in a different band at a moment’s notice.

I’ve often actually thought… that these guys weren’t even really that concerned about the person they were “with” … as much as they were worried that the person would leave them for a guy in a band that they considered “better” or “more popular” because there is a a fair amount of EGO dominating this rock world.

I had just walked into the club that evening, and watched as Anthony made a b-line towards me, hair brush in his hand, rubber band around his wrist.
“D.D.?” he asked in his little boy voice, “Would you please brush and braid my hair for the show tonight?”
Now, Anthony is actually three years older than me but I swear he looked like he was about fifteen at the time and tended to act about the same age.

I rolled my eyes, grabbed the hairbrush and the rubber band, and sat down at the bar table to brush his hair.

“You really can’t do this yourself Anthony?” I asked.

He turned his back towards me, stepped backwards until my legs were straddled around him, placed his hands on my knees and said, “No, you brush it.”

Once again I felt my eyes roll as I began to brush his hair. I already had Lex, my youngest child by this time, and so I brushed his hair as if I was brushing my daughter’s hair on a day she was really frustrating me.

“Ow,” he said in a baby voice. “Too hard.”

I fought the urge to hit him on the top of his head with the hairbrush… but I didn’t… I just continued on with my task.

Now there is something soothing, often mesmerizing about brushing long hair and soon we were both quiet as I worked gently separating his strands into three individual groups of hair before twisting them into a long neat braid. I put my hand over the braid and ran my fingers down it from top to bottom, the last touch in the process, making sure that it was smooth and hung straight.

“There,” I said. “All done.”

Anthony turned around, his hands resting gently on my hips as we now looked at each other face-to-face, his body still straddled between my legs, smiling his goofy smile and about to get all flirty with me when my X walked into the club.

It was one of those horrible moments that you can’t explain.

Seriously.

How do you explain how Anthony Kiedis got between your legs?

How do you explain your arm wrapped around his shoulders, holding the braid hanging down his back?

How do you explain Anthony staring at you like you’re a giant ice cream cone and he just wants a taste of it?

You don’t I tell you.

What you do is you push Anthony Kiedis away as roughly as you possibly can before you stand up from the bar stool, and pull your teeny tiny mini skirt down to cover your legs hoping that the five extra inches of black spandex will somehow make you look “virginal,” and watch as your current man storms towards you, hate in his eyes, and you pray that Anthony doesn’t die before set time.

“What the FUCK Anthony?” my X screamed at him.

My X is a big, burly handsome man…. often confused with the Devil… gold eyes, jet black hair, skull tattoos and Anthony backed away with his hands up.

“Hey —,” he said to my X trying to calm the situation down by playing the cool friendship card, “I didn’t know D.D. was your girl.”

And once again I felt my eyes rolling in my head. Everyone knew I was with X… Anthony’s lame excuse was not going to save him from a massacre.

My X was pressing the issue, leaned over, pounding his finger against Anthony’s chest. Every imaginable cuss word being used in the most creative way as it spewed forth from his mouth at an astonishing rate.

I was looking around for ANYONE to come to my rescue, stop them both before they were a bloody mess, and that’s when Mark Johnson appeared on the scene.

Mark Johnson… one of the sweetest, kindest guys you could ever want to know and today, if I had been a smart woman… I would have spent more time hanging out with him but I was too often seduced by the dramatic dysfunction of the scene.

Mark got in between them, calmed my X down, and lead Anthony away upstairs where he was going to hang out in the Green Room until set time.

I spent the next 30 minutes trying to explain to my X that what had just happened was totally innocent but… no luck… he ended up storming off to the bar for a big shot of Ten High as I sat back down at the table… the now “infamous” table where I had illicitly brushed and braided Anthony’s hair, put my hands over my eyes and just shook my head back and forth for a minute, disgusted with the total comedy of errors that had just transpired before me.

I felt like I was wearing a LARGE SCARLET LETTER and I couldn’t help but think to myself that maybe I should just go home now and call it a night. I had a feeling that the fight might ratchet back up after hours if me, Anthony and X were all in the same room and both of the boys were stoned or drunk.

Just then, I felt a tap on my shoulder, and almost afraid to look up, I raised my gaze and was relieved to be looking into the smiling face of Mark Johnson.

“Anthony asked me to give you this,” he said.

I opened the small folded white piece of notebook paper that he had held out to me and read the word, “Hi” with a child-like smiley face drawn next to it.

I looked up at Mark, and then looked back at the note.

“Are you serious?” I asked before rising from the table and grabbing my purse and walking away.

“What do you want me to tell him?” Mark shouted after me.

“That I’m going home,” I said.

“Home?” Mark Johnson said, his voice full of amusement and surprise that I was turning the “little man” down.

“Home,” I said and headed for the door.

I strutted past the bar where I saw my X happily settled in; surrounded by friends and fans, smoke in one hand, bottle of Ten High in the other, and gave one last look back at Mark who waved sweetly before he headed off to the Green Room to disappoint Anthony with my response.

I almost broke into a jog, dying to climb into my old 63′ Buick and race for the safety of home.

“You back already?” My mom said as I came into the house.

I watched as Lexi climbed off her Nana’s lap and rushed towards me.

“Boy drama,” I said to my mom as I grabbed Lex and scooped her up into my arms.

“Oh those boys,” Nana said, “Just like your father was in high school. Pachucos on parade.”

I tried not to smile but I couldn’t help it… she was so right… Pachucos on parade.

I carried Lex into her bedroom, kicked off my heels, climbed up onto the bed with her to read “Pat the Bunny” and left the Pachucos behind me.

Mr. Stroosma Sets the Classroom on Fire

2 Comments

I don’t ask for much from my substitute teacher.

I don’t.

You can ask any of my students: Stroosma’s job is cake.

Silent Reading for 30 to 40 minutes… followed by a nice “book to movie” dvd and his day is done.

Beautiful.

Nice kids.

Good snacks.

Easy day.

No problems.

So when I left for four weeks in the early spring of 2008 for a Writer’s fellowship in Vermont, I assumed, stupidly, that I could somehow trust that my classroom would run smoothly for the entire time I was gone… as long as I had Stroosma at the helm of the ship.

Stroosma is definitely one of the “beloved.”

A small group of teachers, substitutes, and staff members at Millikan High School that students actually really do enjoy being with…

The kids would be super stoked to have him as their substitute teacher for four weeks.

He’s good looking…

Witty…

A very talented musician (former fantabulous bass player for the Sea Monsters) and…

My Facebook husband; which earns him TOTAL cool points in my book.

Girls have crushes on him… (and boys too)

Boys want to be like him… (and girls too)

He is “Thee” substitute and the kids know, when walking into the classroom, that “YES! STROOSMA’S HERE TODAY!” and that they are going to have a lovely day of respite from their regularly scheduled teacher.

Perfect.

Now, I’m sure you have already duly noted that I did not mention academics in the above description and this is why…

Don’t get me wrong… academics are important and Stroosma can teach…

But when you’re going to be 1,500 miles away from your students for four weeks… academics runs a FAR distant second to CLASS CONTROL.

You don’t want the Principal rolling around to your classroom every day, amped up because your substitute teacher can’t keep 180 high school students entertained for a 90 minute period… SERIOUSLY… you just don’t.

You need a “show” man…

You need A HEADLINER…

You need a man with a plan that can handle your clan.

And that’s Stroosma.

Sinatra would have wanted him in the “Rat Pack” every day of the week.

So… I spoke to him WAY in advance… because a substitute like Stroosma is always in high demand… and said:

“I’m going to be gone four weeks, and I need you to take my class. All I ask… (and I paused here for emphasis)  is that you and the kids don’t burn the room down while I’m gone. Okay?”

Stroosma smiled his little Stroosma smile…

Winked his little Stroosma wink…

And gave me the thumbs up.

“No problem,” he said.

And like a FOOL… I believed him.

Two weeks later I was in Vermont… sitting in a beautiful Victorian house, content in my warm room, looking out the large bay window at the snow falling gently all around me, as I typed out the first full draft of my novel.

Ahhhhh.

The view… serene…

The icy river… crystal crisp.

The rolling snowy hills… the water wheel of the old red mill.

I couldn’t ask for more of a picture postcard moment if I had planned it with God himself when suddenly… it was like a text bomb went off on my phone.

There must have been 30 alerts within 10 seconds and I am not exaggerating.

My students were bombarding me with messages all of which read: STROOSMA JUST ALMOST BURNED OUR ROOM DOWN. COME BACK.

Oh funny… I thought… look how much they miss me… I smiled to myself… they just love to tease me… such a funny game… Aren’t they silly children…. like I can just magically get back to Long Beach in a blink of an eye…. aren’t they just so cute…

I was sure Stroosma must have put them up to this and I’m telling you, I thought that right up until message number 31 which was from Stroosma himself and that’s when my little warm and fuzzy moment fled my little writer’s room and my brain almost exploded from my head:

HEY D, THE ROOM WAS ON FIRE BUT EVERYTHING IS OKAY.

Now… “WTF” was not even being used in text vocabulary at this time… but if I had been in my right mind at that moment… I would have made it up on the spot and typed it to him.

I called immediately.

No answer.

I started to panic and  dialed again.

No answer. 

Jesus…

I dialed again.

No answer.

My mind was racing…

I could imagine my students, scared to death after their classroom burned down, all lined up  next to the chain link fence… out on the field in a School Wide Fire Drill all because I had left to go to the Writer’s Colony in Vermont.

I was a bad teacher.

I had abandoned my flock.

I dialed again.

Stroosma picked up the phone and I heard all of my students shouting and frolicking in the background… their voices not full of terror and pain but ringing with complete and total joy and ecstasy that they had just had a memorable “event” in their English classroom…

“What the hell?” I shouted at Stroosma. “It was the one thing… the ONE thing I told you not to let happen! Shit… Stroosma!”

My students were suddenly silent… my voice can cut through a classroom even when I’m on a cell phone across the Great Divide and though they couldn’t hear the words… they most definitely heard the tone… and like the well-trained students they are… they knew that when Ms. Wood was going “insane” you better shut the fuck up.

Silence.

Stroosma was silent as well.

“Well?” I snapped. “What the hell happened?”

“We put a pad thai box in the microwave and then forgot about it.”

I waited… unwilling to give him one inch without more description.

“It caught on fire and the smoke started to billow throughout the classroom,” he tried not to stumble on his words.

“IT WAS TURNING AND BURNING” I heard a wise-heimer shout with glee somewhere in the background, followed by a long barrage of slap sounds and shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhs… vigilantly justice being handed down by the “citizens” while the Sheriff was out of town.

“Nothing happened,” Stroosma said. “Not even the fire alarm.”

I let out a huge sigh of relief knowing that my students were safe, my room was still standing, and my Principal would not be signing my pink slip out of Millikan when I returned to Long Beach.

“Miriam was the one who told me,” Stroosma said.

Miriam… my German foreign exchange student… who could barely hold a basic conversation in English had raised her sweet little hand, pointed her militant little German finger at the microwave, and in heavily accented broken English said… Summ theeeeng ES burn ING!”

Fucking Stroosma.

I could have had a God damn international incident on my hands because of him.

“You having fun?” He asked.

“Oh yeah…” I said sarcastically. “Great time… getting a lot of good writing done.”

“Okay then,” he said. “Talk to you later.”

I hung up the phone and spent about another 45 minutes retrieving text messages from students who wanted me to know that they loved me, missed me, and thought everything that had just happened was super funny…

I sat back in my chair and watched the clock…  as I pictured my classroom back home… sad that I was minutes away from the actual Vermont Ben and Jerry’s factory… and I had none of the children I loved with me….or Stroosma… to go eat some ice cream with and enjoy a good laugh over the day’s event.

An Awkward Moment with Axl Rose

Leave a comment

     

When my X and I were dating, he was in the middle of a meteoric rise to what I considered at 21 to be “fame” in a former punk band turned heavy metal riot rock band.

Tours went from playing with local Orange County and Los Angeles punk favorites to playing with Guns and Roses in venues that held well over a thousand spectators as GNR was about to reach their peak in the late 80’s … early 90’s.

When I tell my students the stories of these days, they look on with a sort of adoration mixed with total disbelief. They can’t imagine me in THAT setting.  It’s not exactly that they can’t believe that I ever had a life… I’m pretty open, as a teacher, about sharing stories on living that I believe may help to educate or inspire “better choices than I made” decisions in my students.

But… they picture me now: no make-up on, hair pulled back in a pony tail, conservative clothing, a picture of maternal warmth, and find it hard to believe there was ever a: nightclub make-up, big haired vixen, scantily dressed, sex kitten hidden somewhere inside of THAT teacher’s body… and you know what?

That’s really a good thing.

You don’t NEED high school students thinking of you that way. You need high school students to see you as Mrs. Stay-Puff Marshmallow and keep the lines drawn firmly in the sand, wait strike that… CEMENT… as you grade their essays with a bright red marker and give them demerits for chewing gum or sleeping in class.

SUCH a meany!

I do however, like to shock them with my past every now and then… and watch as they cock their little heads to the side, their confusion just so palpable and adorable as they try to make meaning from the oxymoron they are actually looking at: The Cool Rocker Stay-Puff Marshmallow Teacher  known as…Ms. Wood.

You can hear their little brains ticking…

It doesn’t fit…

She’s lying…

That just doesn’t make sense…

I smile just to think of it.

I was in my early 20’s when my X’s band was moving it’s way through the Los Angeles Rock Scene… my X was very handsome… in an animalistic sort of way… dark, beautiful gold eyes, growling voice, women loved him or should I say, fantasized about him, and although I was very street smart at the time, I was very naive when it came to love… I honestly believed that I would be the only woman he would have eyes for as he rose to stardom.

He tried… don’t get me wrong… X did love me.

But if you know anything about Guns and Roses in the late 80’s early 90’s then you know that women… at the shows and on the road… were abundant and that ANY band touring with them would be sharing in that “abundance.”

I’d like to tell you that I enjoyed this “behind the scenes” rock and roll period of time in my life, but really… I didn’t much.

And I still have a hard time reconciling myself to that past today.

On this particular occasion though… it was not X’s women or X’s drug addiction getting under my skin… it was Axl Rose.

Yes… Mr. Axl Rose.

Mr. Slithery snake dancer, bandana wearing, ginger haired, 80’s bad boy.

What… a piece of work.

I was in college at the time and had gotten in the habit of bringing my books with me to shows.

That way… when X was in the middle of sound check, I could sit in the auditorium seats, study for my classes, and not get behind in my work.

I was alone that day, sitting in the theater watching Guns and Roses sound check when Axl took the stage.

Now, the guys in Guns and Roses had already shown some interest in my looks. Probably because I was a baby, barely of age, had jet black hair, white skin, dark purple lipstick lips, and tried to never speak in their presence… what a perfect 80’s girl: attractive and mute.

They would often walk by and smile or wave at me and I always waved back, but other than that… I had given them little attention, having grown up in a world of music where most of my friends and family were already Punk Rock Legends or just “notrious.”

I was mid-way through a textbook chapter on God knows what subject… when I realized that Axl was saying some really dirty words from the stage. At first, I thought it was just some part of a song he was singing… but a few seconds later… when I heard, “And she sits in the auditorium in front of me, reading her books, as I imagine myself naked on top of…”

I looked up and watched as he slithered his way back and forth across the stage, microphone stand in his hand, his mouth seductively moaning out sexual innuendoes to his “chosen” and supposedly so “adoring” audience and I thought… Jesus… fuck… Where the hell is X?”

I closed my books, gathered my things, and exited my way out the side entrance as Axl stopped mid sex-rap and looked at me just as my students look at me today…. head cocked to one side… a bit of disbelief… his confusion palpable and adorable as he watched the oxymoron that was once sitting in front of him exit the building: An 80’s rock chick that didn’t want to have ANY thing to do with Axl Rose.

And there goes Axl’s little brain ticking:

This isn’t happening.

She’s just pretending…

She has to like me…

Amazing…

I wandered off to find X who was eating some tacos with the guys in the band around the corner from the venue.

Of course, when I told him what Axl had done… he wanted to go beat him… this was nothing new (see story about the time I brushed Anthony Kiedis’s hair for confirmation if needed)

But X calmed down and we went on with our evening and enjoyed the show.

I was still out front after the performance, thanking some friends and family who had come to the event before heading back stage to be with X when, I said my goodbyes, flashed my backstage pass, and headed down the narrow hallway to the Green room.

Unfortunately, as I rounded the first corner, I came face to face with not only Axl Rose but David Lee Roth.

My first thought was one of shock.

David Lee Roth always looked so sexy in his videos but I had never seen Van Halen perform live… never seen David live.

He was shorter than I had imagined… a bit chubby at the time… and his hair, though still long, was thinning on the top giving the appearance of a balding mullet.

I wasn’t sure how to react.

Here were two internationally known sex symbols standing in the hallway of this venue, and I felt like I was in the Ozarks about to hear the theme song of, Deliverance, begin to rise in the background as I was begged to play the “little piggy” game with both of them.

It was horrible.

Axl was leaning into the corner of the turn… sweaty from his set and smirking at the fact that I was going to have to make my way past both of them by squeezing through the middle of their conversation.

I knew that either way I turned… I was in trouble…

If I was face to face with Axl as I passed by… he would just say a bunch of dirty things and try to get me to want him… and if I was face to face with David Lee Roth… Axl would grab my ass while I had to think of something nice to say to David about my admiration for his talent… while trying to ignore the thin, balding mullet and Axl’s creepy little hands on my butt.

It was definitely a rock and roll gauntlet.

I thought about just turning around and going out the way I came in but if I didn’t find X… he would probably come to the conclusion that I was with Axl and then there really WOULD be a brawl… and David Lee Roth would lose ALL of his hair… and it would be ALL MY FAULT when he had to accept his place in the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame TOTALLY bald.

Shit.

I was trapped.

I decided it was best to face Axl head on and leave my butt for David Lee Roth.

I strided forward with purpose before wiggling my way through the two of them.

Axl locked eyes with me as if he thought that he could somehow “voodoo spell” me into wanting him.

“Like the show?” he whispered in his most seductive voice.

I rolled my eyes as I felt David Lee Roth put his hands on either side of my hips and say in his “comic” goofy stage voice, “Excuse me..”

Jesus.

I almost ran down the last third of the hallway turning back only once to see them both admiring the jiggle and the shake.

I felt flushed with embarassment as I turned the last corner and ran right into X who was talking to Slash.

My face must have registered shock at being confronted with yet another “Gun,” since I was barely recovered from my brush with Axl, and Slash looked amused by my entrance.

“This is D.D.,” X said.

“Hey,” I said as I reached out my hand to shake his, still a bit breathless from the incident. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“Oh man,” Slash said. “We all thought you were Russian.”

“Russian?” I said.

“Yeah, the way you look and all.”

Suddenly… it clicked.

I bet Axl thought I couldn’t understand a word he was saying at sound check.

“Ty che blyad?”

Jerk.

X of course was just pleased that GNR thought that he was dating the hot foreign chick and I wondered if I might be able to keep the farce going by practicing a thick Russian accent and learning a good selection of Russian vocabulary. That way, I could basically make my way through the Rock World without talking to any of the key players if I didn’t want to… the thought of it was quite enticing…

“Ready to go?” X asked as he wrapped his arm around my waist.

“Nice to meet you,” I said to Slash as X grabbed his guitar case.

He lead me back down the small hallway and I watched as both Axl and David stepped aside for him.

“Good show,” X said as we walked by.

David shook his hand, Axl gave him a nod… and I just kept stepping… no turning around…. no looking back….

Dasvidania.

Steve Soto coins the phrase “Dramatacus” which sparks a semi-serious conversation at 3am

Leave a comment

Let me start by saying Steve Soto swears he coined this phrase… and I’m okay with giving the sassypants credit but, if someone has a “beef” with it… take it up with Soto…  he’s somewhere in Europe right now hosting a “sausage fest” (his words…. not mine) as Punk Rock’s favorite nice guy in his band The Adolescents.

I wish I had coined that phrase…

NOT “sausage fest…”

but “Dramatacus.”

I really do.

Steve was brilliant to think of it and now… it is one of my favorite non-words, that HAS become a word, and I pray that someone will add it to Webster’s Dictionary next to GIANORMOUS… and SWAG.

Now… I’m sure we can agree, that we have all been guilty of being a “Dramatacus” at some time in our lives… yes that’s right people…. each and every one of us… don’t even try to deny it.

And…anyone that knows me… knows… that I can definitely be the BIGGEST “gladiator” of dramatic play when provoked…

or sometimes… just because I’m bored.

Being a high school teacher alone cranks the drama-meter off the chart on a daily basis:

“Ms. Wood, so-and-so… told so-and-so… that I was pregnant with so-and-so’s baby.”

Or…

“Ms. Wood, so-and-so… likes so-and-so… but I’m SO in love with so-and-so… I don’t know what to do.”

Or…

“Ms. Wood, so-and-so… told so-and-so… that I was the one that crapped on the floor in the locker room and now so-and-so won’t ask me to Prom.”

See what I mean?

Drama.

Now, add in a daughter that likes to pick up dead bodies for a living…

A son who is a cross between Phil Spector and Brian Eno…

An X who is working on years of recovery… (a Dramatacus in his own right) that’s at the house once a week playing music in the garage…

Throw in a couple of band projects, book projects, and a few sober bad boys in need of reform… and you’ve basically got yourself a “Circus Maximus” of Dramatacus fun.

Now at times… I really like being a Dramatcus… it amps up life…. and adds to the excitement…. but when you are in a relationship with someone… it’s really not a good thing.

You basically go from being their beautiful statue on a pedestal, their reason for living…. to a ROYAL PAIN IN THE ASS in a matter of minutes.

And the worst thing is… you just can’t stop yourself…

It’s like you’re possessed…

You know you are acting like a total idiot…

That you are making the situation worse…

That you are the engineer of your own train wreck….

But you just keep going…

People could be running from you… screaming in terror… looking back over their shoulder at you as if you are GODZILLA about to destroy them… and yet you will still chase them on and INSIST that you MUST EXPLAIN WHY YOU ARE BEING A DRAMATACUS… which only makes them run faster and further as they pray to God that he will “EXIT” you from their life FOREVER.

Sigh…

So it was while Steve and I were both dealing with major emotional upheavals in our worlds…. and trying VERY hard not to both go into Dramatacus mode at the same time… that we started having our  “late night” phone conversations.

Problem is… “late night” to me is around 9 pm, especially on a school night…

And “late night” to Steve Soto is somewhere around 3 am.

We fixed the problem by meeting somewhere in the middle with Steve texting around 11 pm with an “Are you up?” message and if I was… I would call and we would chat.

Now I have known Steve for years… and he has always been able to make me laugh… but one night when I was on the phone howling over someone who I felt had “wronged” me and reading him an email from this person that had caused me to be terribly upset… he stopped and asked,

“Wait… was their sex involved in this relationship?”

I paused……

“No,” I said quietly.

“You guys weren’t like going out right?”

“No,” I said quietly again.

“Well, that seems like a LOT of drama for a non-sexual relationship.” He paused for a moment and then said, “What a Dramatacus.”

It stunned me…

He stunned me…

What a wordsmith.

I was impressed.

I knew that he was speaking about the person in the email… that they were being a Dramatacus in writing… but it stopped me long enough to recognize how DRAMATIC I was being about the entire situation as well.

I was being totally ridiculous.

Someone expressed their feelings to me in writing… That’s it.

I didn’t need to get all bent about it.

Maybe I could for once just bring it down a notch… which I did… waited to respond… and the friendship survived the episode.

The next day I was out walking with my friend Margie when I told her about Steve’s word and the event that lead up to it.

The day after… I was a bit late arriving to her house for our daily walk…. and as I pulled up…. the text alert beeped on my phone and I saw “McLate-acus” flash across the screen.

I looked up to see Margie… giggling from her front porch.

Steve and Margie really know how to make a point when they want to… in the best artistic sense of the matter.

I hope they add McLate-acus to Webster’s as well.