Is This It?
When I was nineteen, I was a sophomore in college. I had a blues show at the college radio station. You probably heard of it. It's WAY down on the left end of the dial. Further...yup, a little further...Oh, damn, you missed it! It's okay. You had to be a pretty diehard fan to find me.
In my freshman year, I crept across campus at the crack of dawn for an early-morning time slot on the AM dial. You can ask my roommate. I was MUCH more likely to show up on the radio than I was in classes. Later, I was the only one at the station who took advantage of all of the interviewing equipment. I used it to record phone interviews with John Hammond and Bob Margolin. I had the Nighthawks and a couple of local bands I was in love with as guests on my show. The interviews earned me a spot on Sunday afternoons, which was WAY better than the 5:00am Tuesday gig!
When George Clinton was coming to town, I was the best/only choice to do his interview. I studied, at the library, like we had to do, back in the day. I interviewed musicians about George's influence on them. I had index cards and edgy questions about the falling out with Bootsy Collins. I was 100% professional and prepared.
And...
He didn't show up. (In the 90's, we didn't really speak in letters but WTF, am I right?)
So, I went down to the space where George Clinton and the P-Funk Allstars were scheduled to play that night. I knew what I had to do. I shook my hair down, hiked up my skirt, and wandered to the middle of where all of the set-up/soundcheck hubbub was hubbubbing. I twirled my hair around a finger. I tilted my head a little and looked as lost as I possibly could, as if I had never taken a Women's Studies class in my life.
Guess what happened.
A small crowd of helpful fellas gathered around like yellow jackets trying to help a little spilled soda on summer pavement. Study that, Friedan^!
I was able to get several of the roadies to arrange to deliver SOMEONE from the entourage, if not GC himself, to the station. Also, someone from the television station who happened to be wondering by decided the whole thing should be recorded for their viewers. The video is still out there somewhere, I guess, though I abandoned my copy in the attic of my South Main Street House when I up and moved to New York.#
It wasn't an altogether bad interview. I met Andree "Foxxe" Williams, a guitarist with the band, and a horn player I can't remember. (Sorry, guy. I've been annoyed by the sound of a saxophone since my high school job at Casella's Italian Restaurant, where they played Kenny G Christmas, on repeat, from Halloween until Valentine's Day.) I also interviewed the dancer, Sir Nose D'Voidoffunk. Oh, Sir Nose! Most of the interview, as I remember it, consisted of Foxxe trying to get a word in about music while Sir Nose and I ogled each other.
Probably not my best work.
I stayed in touch with Nose for years and went to the Letterman show with Clinton's entourage a few years later. I witnessed the Bootsy Collins reunion and saw the Mothership land in Central Park. I danced with Sir Nose and with George Clinton, in front of that big crowd. I could have gotten lost on the road with that band, a "production assistant" in short-shorts and platform shoes.
Instead, I joined the Peace Corps.*
But I stray from my point.
Simply put, I wanted a thing to happen, I refused to let it go, I sacrificed my womanly principles to get what I wanted AND I was pretty damn pleased about the outcome.
Flash forward to last week. It took me seven rings of the bell on the counter and a manager consult just to get two pounds of tilapia from the fish counter at the Fresh Market. I left the deli without slices to avoid fighting the same fight there. Someone walked into me. Another person didn't acknowledge me standing in the line and cut in front of me. Have you had that experience? Have you wondered, "Am I dead, haunting the Fresh Market? WHO did I wrong to deserve this?"
Am I fucking invisible?
Nope.
I'm 47.
Now, surely, 47 is too young to retire, too young to worry about dying before I get to do the things I want to do. Somebody I trust told me not to worry, I'd probably live until I'm 120. But what if I'm hit by a bus? Or lightning? What if I go to the wrong movie or grocery store on the wrong day? What if the wrong person notices my Anti-Racist t-shirt and decides to live their t-shirt precept, "Guns don't Kill People. People Kill People"? Or maybe I piss off the wrong person in traffic. And don't even get me going on the cancers.
I know that we don't get forever.
I know.
So, my big question is this. "Is this it?"
I refuse to believe that life is about THIS. It's not about begging for attention in low-stake situations, writing reports, arranging appointments for my children, arranging appointments for my mother, driving carpools, putting off taxes, parent-teacher conferences, petitions, and scheduling grocery pick-ups. And is sure as shit can't be about making meals for people who prefer cereal for dinner anyway. There has to be more than counting calories and writing fucking thank you cards.
Surely, the WHOLE POINT is not watching my once-remarkable bosom drop and feeling my ovaries shrivel up in my body. My life is not about mourning the end of my birthing and nursing years, my lullaby-singing years. It is not about grieving the end of turning heads.
I am so much more than I was at the radio station, more than I was, dancing at Central Park.
I have been broken into a million sharp bits and I have survived.
I could teach those folks about the blues.
And so, here, in what may be the second half of my life, I am writing to live. I am writing to laugh and to cry and, hopefully to make someone else feel less alone.
Welcome aboard.
^Truly, I am a feminist. Back then, I was not so strong in my resolve. And I had REALLY nice legs. I may or may not have used them to win debates in high school. I can't be sure. *
* I promise, there are a ton of stories here. I may get around to writing them. Be patient! This is my first day as a blogger.
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