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It's in your DNA, so tell them that you came with the band.

Jul. 16th, 2014 | 11:19 pm
mood: indescribableindescribable
music: Luv XXX - Aerosmith

I took my first spin behind the wheel of a friend's car perhaps three years ago in the Wantagh, New York parking lot of Jones Beach amphitheater--a 8200-seat stadium jutting out over the bay. I looked upon it as a christened child, a place of untold secret love, the warmth in my chest radiating. I'd seen Aerosmith perform as though the world were ending that very night four times over the course of my budding girlhood (and once more at the nearby Nassau Coliseum), and I knew for certain that the number would never peak and die off; I would dance through those weather-beaten doors again...

...and I did, see, just last week, heart brimming (and eyes, too). For the first time since my very first well-begged-for concert ticket--puberty vastly enveloping me at the time--my brother stood beside me, filling the shoes my mother had always fabulously sported. My apprehension dropped with the weight of a ton of bricks as we slipped through security's rabid fingers, acquired flashy tour memorabilia, stole to our morbidly expensive orchestra seats. I do apologize, Slash, for my short attention span, but I knew what flitted about in fierce anticipation behind those salt-kissed stage curtains and I could not arrest my knee from shaking if my life had depended upon it. Thankfully the piercing, climactic opening riff of "Sweet Child o' Mine" was enough to temporarily quell the heightened dizzy spells in me, and my brother and I sang over the top of them as though we, ourselves, had written the damn notes. Standing next to him, my beach-blown hair woven hellaciously around his neck, you might inquire as to our picture-perfect relationship, wonder how it is that we might ever be apart, not glimpse the haunted past of thrown fists, blue lights awash on the living room walls, tear-encrusted tissues littered in a hospital hallway. Who are these two lone-hearts, their crinkled eyes oozing the most profound admiration, their lungs on fire?

I knew more precisely what to expect from this god-child-with-five-fathers than perhaps every manager they might have initiated in all 44 years of their musically-driven livelihoods. With every breath, every syllable, every half-a-tick's nuance embedded in the DNA of my soul it is no wonder that it practically skirts my excitement as routine. But as soon as those rotating orbs shy down to black and the curtain lifts and the first drop of Tom Hamilton's bass reverberates on the hungry lap of the waves it is as though my innards, possessed by the long-nailed hand of Satan, burst from my resounding chest, blood and guts galore, and run screaming for the stage. It matters not that a short distance bars me from the outreached arm of rock-n'-roll's most critically acclaimed devil-god, the vibrant scarves on his traveling mic stand the snakes in the Garden of Eden; I perk to his every perpetuated gasp, every drop of sweat urged by gravity's absolution, every perfect excuse to close feverish eyes and summon the image of a song's birth, its humble beginnings, their tangible personalities. Every song is unmistakably for me, the encore a gallant sneak-peek to next time; there's always a next time. And next time will be mine, too.

And nothing belonged more fervently to me than the fifteen seconds I robbed, sucked desperately from straining, life-bursting seams of Steven Tyler's most valiant attempt at an exit. Here, now: A tour bus pulling away, lights raining down on a primed, shirtless figure erected in the windshield. "Aerosmith is on that bus!" projects a tight throat, soaked in passionate excitement. It is Joe Perry, the lead guitarist, chest a-gleam under the canopy lights. "Hah!" goes my slightly narcissistic thought-base--"Aerosmith travels in five separate directions," I knew, because I'd read (and reread) each and every autobiography more times over than there are stars in the night sky. No sooner had I licked delicately secretive lips than a further urgent emission assaulted my pricked ears--"stand back, stand back!" I felt my brother falter. Coasting our way were the glistening rims of a jet-black SUV, the front windows rolled down, security's arms flexing frantically beside the steering wheel--and out the opposite window, well, what...? Black-streaked nails and shiny silver rings. How dare they seek the Long Island air not yet soiled by my rampant head and heart. I don't even remember the split-second dive into the face of oncoming traffic--nor do I care, honestly--or the way my brother's voice caught in his throat (much like mine, I imagine, when we pried him out of the steel-folded damage oncoming traffic and an altered mind had dealt him). I don't remember, God help me, the love-starved utterances I must have spewed in his angelic face: "Oh, my God, Steven Tyler, I love you?" Or was it a little less star-struck? If I dig deep enough to fiercely remember I fear losing the glint of the streetlights on a front-toothed side-smile, picture-perfect, and the distinct warmth of his breath on my cheekbones, the ripe scent of two hours' worth of an unmatched stage presence finding me like a whipping breeze beneath my nose, famed fingers framing the heat in my face as he bent toward me, sweat-infused bangs licking my drum-beaten temples and, oh, God, the distinct rasp of the voice I've known intimately since my teenage speakers first offered it graciously, unrelentingly, mercilessly--"Oh, I love you, too, baby"--and the mutually rushed graze of sloppy lips, together as one for a blink of the universe's forever-rolling eye-- Dear God, did I just kiss Steven Tyler?! But only the pavement beneath my suddenly crashing knees and overflowing, divinely stricken eyes could attest to the romantic truth of so many of my girlhood, hero-humbled dreams. I kissed Steven Tyler. I KISSED him.

There is a minuscule part of me that wonders avidly what next time--and there will be a next time--might advertise as a means of topping what my heart, still, cannot seem to accurately fathom. What on earth (or perhaps further, still) might hallowed hands and golden lips cup, then?

They say that every face in the mind's eye of your dreams is a face that you have witnessed in person (somewhere, anywhere), that the very immaculate details imprinted on unaware eyes are borne of the things that actually exist and breathe the same real-time air that you do. I wonder if, when Steven Tyler closes unaware eyes, he sees the tear-streaked face of a girl explosively blindsided by what only an imaginative dream can procure, the fastidiously strewn atoms of living and dying and the reason she does one and not the other, the earth-shattering hallows of thanks and awe and life-changing inspiration-- "true love's" kiss, somewhere. Anywhere. I kissed Steven Tyler!

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There is nothing wrong with your perception of reality.Collapse )

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And just this once, why don't you fight?

Jun. 2nd, 2014 | 04:51 pm
mood: workingworking
music: Showtime - Aesthetic Perfection

Red fishnets bleed under the threat of rainy weather, did you know? I certainly didn't when I donned them the night of the Aesthetic Perfection concert last week, choker in check and boots laced high. More disconcerting was the fact that I hadn't even a whisper of a clue of what a small venue, a close-knit fan base, and a night on the town with adam_0oo held tightly tucked and waiting to brandish fiercely, but I knew it would be an exciting kind of different. The breath-defying tingle in the pit of my chest kept telling me so.

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Being among the most conservatively dressed in the crowd is not a habit of mine, and so it was a little peculiar that I should stand out for what I have forever had a difficult time standing in for. Some personified Halloween and some seemed to bloom right from the naughty end of a Victoria's Secret catalog, but it mattered not when the lights turned down and the lead took the stage, grinning wider than a masochistic Barbie doll and coddling the microphone like a much-needed drink. The excitement in me burst like a swollen balloon; I let it rip through me with all the chaotic caresses of a windy day on the beach. I laughed, I cried, I screamed (sometimes even louder than he--and perfectly on cue with his glimmering eyes when they alighted on me). I cannot accurately depict, no matter the depth of language offered by my very adept head the fulfillment granted in spite of my fervent longing for this event, for the feelings I felt and wanted to feel since the very first time I was able to rock an outfit myself, part my hair the way I relished, say the things I meant to say when instead a hard swallow and a second thought sufficed. I witnessed a birth in myself that I feigned pregnancy with for the better part of my twenty-four years--the colors bled brighter, the industrial pound of the bass louder, empowering, able to lift me from the ground and hold me above the acrid, day-to-day haze attempting feverishly to quarantine me under. A simple girl would find achievement in expressing herself as "alive," but for me the word falls short. I was certain that, had I the means to telephone God He would have granted me a concrete pick-up on the often ignored line. There is a newly discovered vein in my immortality, a vein no knife can touch, and it faces the world with renewed promise and tenacity.

Adam was there when my train pulled in, when the glasses emptied, and when my sense of direction took a flying leap out of the back window. And he was there egging me on when the animal in me stole the stage between sets from the scantily clad goth girls who seemingly graced it while I rocked it. Somehow no matter the act, no matter the venue, no matter how incredibly much the beauty of being there means to me an underground anxiety surfaces enough to pinch a nerve, hoist worry on the surface of my brain about how much whomever I am with might actually enjoy themselves (though I have difficulty foreseeing myself going alone). But there was a moment in the heat of one of the new singles blaring out over the crowd in which the music cuts and the singer stops and an automated, robotic drone voices, predictably with the chorus, "You're the antibody." And, lost in the passion of that heat, I found myself whipping sharply around on the drop of the beat to shout the words in my friend's face when, to my marked, unsurpassed surprise he pressed his forehead to mine and stole the words right from my mouth! That was the greatest, most freeing moment for me.

On the aesthetic side of such perfection, the scene itself was cozy. Wanting to enjoy the music from the front row meant you could still leave the square two feet for a drink, a bathroom break, to peruse the merchandise tables in the lobby. (This was a foreign language for a girl like me, so accustomed am I to fighting for my life in Dropkick Murphys moshpits.) Coming back to claim the spot was easy if your enthusiasm was obvious, and mine was unprecedented; it meant that when the bop and sway of the music--and, thus, crowd--caused knocking heads, tangled foreign fingers, hip nudges we turned beaming faces to one another and apologized--often more than once--and exchanged excited profanities over the song. And said songs? He missed not a one. He resurrected my favorite album and granted it new life, took my social media suggestions and hung neon lights around them, essentially. The encore had my name formally scrawled on it. I was completely blown away, finally grasped the meaning behind the lyrics "don't forget your head where you left it." I left my head on an industrial-fitted stage in Lower Manhattan with flickering lights and gloved fists (I bumped the lead's!!) and I haven't much intention to get it back, honestly. I took a deep breath of valiant life under that roof in my bleeding red fishnets and knowingly swallowed it. I don't want to exhale.

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Enjoy the show 'cause you'll see, 'cause you'll see who I really am.Collapse )

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I've been lookin' for an outside fix to make my insides right.

Jul. 5th, 2012 | 09:43 pm
mood: indescribablechanged
music: Legendary Child - Aerosmith

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I'm not really quite sure how to articulate the perpetual somersaults my heart, my head, and my stomach have been taking since Aerosmith graced my backyard, Nassau Coliseum, on July 1st--since the split moment Steven Tyler strutted his enticing, 64-year-old ass to my side of the stage, read my shirt ("Marry me, Steven Tyler!"), allowed me to touch him, and proceeded to lavishly portray how he could "have [me], baby!"

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This being the fourth time I've seen them, you'd think I know the drill by now--I've had my fix and I know what to expect and that's all, that's that. But it seems that, with every show, they get better and better--louder and bigger and flashier and, still, better, better, better. For a band that's been playing together for over forty years you'd think they'd have mellowed out, hit a medium and stayed there, but it's like they don't know how to stop--to "draw the line," as they might say. (Checkmate, honey, beat you at your own damn game!) It's not enough to dance your ass off and bang out the lyrics to a T and bounce around, screaming your head off like fangirl-ism is a dying art--sometimes you're rendered motionless, without voice, without anything at all except raw, utter, incredulous awe and amazement. Jesus, God, when I'm sixty-four I hope I can stand, never mind do half of what each of them does on their own.

And that's just that--being in the same room, hearing the music in its purest, most primal sense, from the source itself is more than enough for me, and it has been since the first time I saw them at sixteen years of age. Imagine my unmatched shock at the sight of my adolescent-childhood hero, the voice that saved me the breath I knew I'd need when I was crawling on cold, basement floor tiles and ripping at my own veins with broken razors, shards of ill-born glass, taking the stage in strides--and right at me! At me! In a sea of thousands that voice found me, and suddenly it didn't matter whether I was sixteen and bleeding or twenty-two and jaded beyond feasible human repair--because, for the first time and for the depth of my memory's undying wherewithal, that voice hushed and heard me. It didn't matter that it saw fit to jive with the dirty pictures in my girlish, nighttime head; it could have dubbed me the scariest, most undeserving sight in the world--but it was mine, then, and it heard me.

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There aren't words enough in time or space or life, ever, to express the gratitude that envelopes me every moment, every second of every day, since. There aren't words enough to prove how it will never leave, that gratitude. The tears I've cried, they are not even a fraction, trimmed and microscopic, of the feelings that awash me every time the scene flashes tantalizingly behind forever-changed blue eyes. Were I faced with the opportunity, really, to stand before him and thank him--without the shirt, without the tears, without the girly shrieks that strangle me in dreams come true--I know that I could not, would only stand there, unable to communicate what a moment's worth of paid attention could do to a girl who never had anything but that voice, and the collective voices that built skyward on the same sentiments and secrets. Maybe I wouldn't even want to say thank you because "thank you" is bland, is overused, is just a coupling of underrated words, and most importantly could never portray the lives saved.

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Those voices, you know, have no idea. Maybe they had voices once, too, long, long ago, but then they became them and they live and they breathe and they forget, though we never will. I never will.

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My voice, ladies and gentlemen. My long-lost heart, my hero, my revived lust for living. The man who simultaneously changed my life and saved it--more than once, twice, thrice. The reason tomorrow seems so beautifully close. My dream come true.

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And this, the patchwork quilt of newfound love and life, the ever-attentive listener-turned-speaker. Now I'll never shut up.

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Watch the mystic and cryptic unfold.

Jun. 4th, 2012 | 01:11 pm
mood: goodgood
music: Nirvana - Adam Lambert

Isn't it funny how far apart we've grown?

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My roses are in your hands.

Mar. 2nd, 2011 | 06:53 pm
music: Dirty Work - Halestorm

Leave me an anonymous comment pouring your heart out. Say anything. Tell me your stories, your secrets, those things no one ever asks but you wish to tell. Tell me about your love, your hate, your indifference, your joy. Tell me about what's inside of you when you're reading through these entries on your friends list, and tell me why you continue to come back here. Tell me anything. Tell me what you really think of me or yourself. Anything.

Post anonymously. Speak honestly. Post as many times as you like.

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(no subject)

Apr. 11th, 2008 | 11:14 pm


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