I Hate Myself for Loving You

Despite my chronological age of thirty, I am suspended in an emotional adolescence. When I discover a new passion, whether a television show or a band, I obsess. And I don't let go, or get over it. While this has made me "charmingly quirky," even I can't dismiss the sickness and oddness of the latest object of my desire: John Rich. Yes, that John Rich. As in the latter half of Big & Rich. It goes against every rational fiber of my being, and bewilders my friends, to fixate on him. But in the last month, I haven't been able to supress the desire/fantasy of him. In a broom closet. For an hour. A few weeks ago, I got word that Sebastian Bach (formerly of Skid Row) was taking part in the second season of "Gone Country." Baz, in my city, for 10 days? All plans on hold, just in case he called. And called [actually, texted] he did: he let me know where they were taping, and I showed up. The first night, I headed to 12th & Porter to see Sebastian and the other contestants in action. The gig was emceed by John Rich, as he's the brainchild and host of the show. He was onstage, cowboy hat and booze in tow, and I was impressed by his cocksure, smooth delivery as he introduced each band. It was strictly a professional admiration, as I like to watch other performers and gauge their interactions and banter with an audience. He was good, but I was focused on Sebastian, who was even better. The finale was housed at the Wildhorse Saloon, my stomping ground. Again, another Sebastian-fueled night, but as John Rich took the stage to warm up the crowd, I began to watch him as a fan, not from a clinical, professional perspective. Suddenly, I liked John Rich. I liked his over-the-top bling, I liked his attitude, I even liked his weird facial hair. I found myself singing "Save a Horse, Ride a Cowboy," a song that I'd shunned for the last few years, even as I am now forced to play it twice a night. Where that repitition failed, his swagger and pride succeeded. As fate would have it, I'd be thrown into the range of his tractor beam again much sooner than I would have expected. A friend of mine received a trip to the ACM Awards in Los Vegas and invited me to come with her. I showed up at the airport at 430a, running on fumes since there'd been no time to sleep the Friday night before, singing "Save a Horse" complete with lasso pantomime. On our flight? Big Kenny. One degree of seperation... We were given tickets to the ACM after-party, and while I was skeptical at sticking around, as we felt that the city of Nashville had been transported to Vegas and the show was nothing we couldn't see in any local bar, I changed my tune when it was announced that John Rich was the host. My poor travelmate was doomed - she knew there was no escaping the party until I'd had my fill. Even the stories of friends of hers that had dated him wouldn't deter me. I watched that man until she finally had to feign a headache to get away. She can't understand my obsession, and neither can anyone else. They keep pointing out his flaws and faults, hoping I'll snap out of it. But as I just spent 10 minutes of worktime gazing at a muted television screen because he was performing, I realized this is not going away anytime soon. At first, I thought it was just the proximity - I'd seen him three times in two weeks, and maybe I'd developed a familial view. Then, I delved deeper: it must be psychological. Perhaps I was turning lesbian - I mean, wouldn't John Rich be the last step down that hallway? But as a number of guys have told me: being attracted to a douchebag confirms and affirms my heterosexuality. So what is it? The Alpha-male status? The commanding presence? The attitude? It sure can't be the music... And still, I have just scoured the CMA Fest schedule looking for his appearances. He has one, and it conflicts with my work schedule. I am trying to figure out how to get out of my job for the night, and I'm still not sure why. Its not Joe Elliott, its not Sebastian Bach, its not Gale Harold, heck, its not even a free drink. And yet...I'm looking to saddle up my horse and have myself a [big and] Rich time.

Will the Circle be Unbroken

My paternal roots are deeply twisted around bottles of liquor. I am aware of, and embrace, the alcoholic branch of my family tree. As I was taught by ABC during Saturday morning cartoons, "Knowledge is power!" and since I know the repercussions of carrying on my family tradition, I opt not to imbibe copious amounts on a frequent basis (i.e. I don't get wasted on school nights). However, on random occasions, I do indulge the beer-swilling, shot-pounding party fiend that lives inside me. She's a loud, brash, unbalanced dancing machine, and thinks she's the heart of any good time. In fact, she's at best a silly, adorable mess and at worst, a slobbering, unchecked train wreck. Armed with this information, and annals of history to support it, I have been untethering her leash sparingly in the last year. But given her history, her bad behavior makes for colorful anecdotes that have been recycled in various bars with various individuals. Recently, a few of these people have been complaining that they've never been privy to the actions of my inner booze hound, and I repeatedly explained my concerns about letting her loose. Those concerns were ignored last week, and I have fears that she has done irreparable damage. I hear she was viciously name-dropping, and may have even been crude regarding tender, private acts I'd engaged in earlier that week. Even worse, she may have insulted the object of my desire. Why else would he have gone MIA for the last 10 days? My closest friends that have known my heavy-lidded, wobbly, slurring alter-ego have assured me that while she's an idiot, she's not an "assh*le," and that she could not have inflicted as much devastation as I fear. So, while she's been peacefully snoring through the week, I've been on edge at every vibration of my phone, waiting for the text message to assure me that she was indeed, cute and idiotic, not haggard and vile. Its times like this that I want to let her out of hibernation to drink me into oblivion. And so the cycle begins, again...

Another One Bites The Dust

Driving down 24 the other night, I had two sounds filling my car: Rolling Stones on Sirius and deep, rhythmic snoring from the male in my passenger seat. I had one thought in my head: It seems I am Nytol to men. A few months ago, I was out with a guy and as the night wound down, we decided to head back to his place. After some flirting and post-alcohol scarfing, we went upstairs. After turning off the lights and cuddling up, I was anticipating a little something. Instead, I got a lot of nothing. I heard his breath come and go in controlled pacing and knew my evening was done. Waking up in a strange bed at 730a without a good story to go along with it is just a waste of time. To be fair, he'd been sick and just gotten home from a month on the road. I can give a pass, chalk it up to circumstances beyond my control. However, two months later, I find myself with a different gentleman who also falls asleep on me. This is not an anomaly - its an outbreak, hopefully contained before it reaches epidemic status. The most disturbing factor in the latter occurrence is that I was the one who had been drinking Absinthe. And Jagermeister. And beer. After an evening of such liquors joining forces in my bloodstream, how is it that I was the person awake? I joined him at the bar around 1030p, and we left sometime near three. We had discussed our *ahem* intentions prior to departure, and frankly, falling asleep was not part of the itinerary. So while he sleeps soundly, cozy in the Mighty Shark as it navigates the slick roads of Nashville, my stomach is churning. Not from the aforementioned Absinthe, but from nerves. When we reach our destination, I will have to wake him up. From there, do I expect our plans to take shape? Or do I just watch him turn the truck on and give him a wave? Is he expecting me to make a move? Or will the previous conversation be attributed to drinking and never mentioned again? Thankfully, he woke up. And I had to use the defroster to defog the windows before I could get back on the road... Perhaps I'm not Nytol, just tryptophan. Much like turkey, it seems men need a nap between rounds.

LA Woman

The Sunset Strip. While before Monday I'd only been chauffeured down the legendary boulevard, I felt I knew the cracks in the sidewalk like the scar on my knee (from an unfortunate shaving debacle) thanks to numerous episodes of Behind the Music and the stories spun on countless albums from my favorite bands. After spending Sunday night in Cincinnati with Tesla (which was a slight disappointment because, though I adore Dave Rude, my crush Frank Hannon was too sick to come off the bus), I hopped on a plane to Los Angeles Monday morning. I had been invited to the Rocklahoma 2008 Press Conference, being held at the Whiskey-A-Go-Go Tuesday afternoon. Prior to the junket, I was meeting up with the organizers and some of the bands for fun and debauchery Monday night. I crashed at a musician's apartment that was just off of Hollywood, and was within walking distance of all those famous footprints as well as a birds-eye view of the Hollywood sign. After some shopping and sightseeing, I grabbed a cab to the Rainbow Bar & Grill. The patio was stuffed with rock stars. Some I recognized (Joe LeSte, Chip Z'nuff) and others were just playing the part. Black was the color below the neck, and platinum was the choice for the lid. After grabbing a bit of food and a lot of booze, the crowd migrated to the Key Club for the Metal Skool gig. I have watched Metal Skool on YouTube and was excited to catch it live, and the gig didn't disappoint. They were hysterical, very quick with a quip and great with the crowd. Hal Sparks jammed some cover tunes, as did P!nk and Michael Rappaport. Scott Ian came out to play an original song, "Asian Hooker." While the show was a blast, I have to admit I may have been a bit swayed by the VIP treatment -- we were escorted to a private room to view the show, and then were given balcony access. The favors continued into the next morning, when I hauled back to the Strip to set up for the conference at the Whiskey. The event coordinator showed me to my table and told me to go exploring while they continued the set-up. Taking advantage of the unexpected free time, I hiked back to the Key Club and popped by the Roxy. After checking out the Viper Room, I grabbed a slice at Frankie & Johnnie's and shopped for a rockin' outfit for later that night. Around 1:30p PST, the press conference started and a cavalcade of 80s heroes were in attendance, including Bret Michaels, Black and Blue, Beautiful Creatures (okay, not 80s, but that band rules and Joe LeSte is also in Bang Tango, so consider it an asterisk) and JetBoy. I got the chance to interview a few of the guys from Creatures and talk to other schmoozers for a bit. Before kicking back to the apartment, I hit the Rainbow for lunch, and it seemed everyone else (including Vixen and Armored Saint) had the same idea. Later that night, I headed out to Hollywood VooDoo for the Press Conference after party (in my new rockin' outfit) and mingled with some of the same faces from the last 24 hours, as well as some new additions. United by the passion for the genre, strange faces became fast friends. I have a number of friend requests to get to after that night. Wednesday morning, I stepped back out onto Hollywood Boulevard to catch a few more rays and last glimpses before I had to turn back to Nashville. Last month I was convinced I wanted to live in New Orleans. This month, I think I've switched gears. The scene is alive and well in Los Angeles, and I should be there. At least I've got the right hair color...

I Saw Red

Six weeks ago, I was fired. Being fired is the professional dumping -- as the receiver of the kick to the curb, I felt blindsided, dumbfounded and totally numb. The same thoughts kept running through my head: "What did I do wrong?" "Oh, my God, what do I do from here?" and "Why would this happen to me?" Basically, the same thoughts that went through my head when I found out that my boyfriend had been cheating on me for over a year. In both situations, I was made to feel totally and utterly replaceable. Much like breaking up with a significant other, breaking up with a business left me with a lot of free time with little to fill it. Sans boyfriend, I scoured match.com. Sans job, I scoured allaccess.com. And my bathroom. I got mad. I teared up. Post-boyfriend, I imagined scenarios in which I walked into an establishment with a guy that would trounce him in any match-up, be it looks, talent, status or prowess. Post-job, I imagined scenarios where I would become part of an establishment that would trounce my former station in any match-up, be it music, talent, ratings or notoriety. While my heart had to heal from the break-up, my ego had to bounce back from the termination. After a weekend of wallowing, I got busy making sure I stayed in the game. I wasn't ready to leave the party just yet. I was bound and determined to keep a name for myself and keep in step with the circle I'd been part of for almost four years. When a break-up is finalized, the vultures start edging into the scene. They either want the gossip on the fizzle, or want their chance at one half of the pair. When a firing happens, the gossip vultures appear immediately. As for trying to scoop up the bird pushed out of the nest, those scavengers have to be called in. So I called. I emailed. I grilled colleagues. Anyone, anything, anywhere that would keep me in the game. Six weeks after a break-up, its time to move on from the past. Six weeks after a termination, its time to move into the future.