I have a hangover (looking at you, tequila) and it’s got me thinking about how between the ages of 25 and 40, the years I spent bouncing in the music journalism funhouse, I was often experiencing life in a hazy daze. I was apparently functional, given my ability to do the job and receive a paycheck, but there’s no doubt my perspective was a bit scrimmed and smudged due to either the immediate- or after-effects of imbibing. Could that be why so many of my memories are shard-y bits floating freely around my head like so much space debris? I’m gonna say yes. As I use the giant butterfly net that is my mind to try and reach out into the atmosphere to catch these moments and bring them back to life, I lose some detail through the netting but also gain some extra bits through my own personal re-creation of the scene.

For instance, when the late Alice in Chains singer, Layne Staley, was pushed playfully yet quite hard by a coworker (not her real name*) outside of CBGBs on a summer night in the early 1990s, in my memory, he literally bounced off a lightpole, then crumpled lifelessly to the ground, possibly dead. Layne was fragile. (He turned out to be fine, but I think more qualified (read: sober) people than us made sure of that.) When that same coworker was hoisted into the air and subsequently dropped on her head by a member of the Smashing Pumpkins, again outside of CBGBs in the early 90s, the sound—a nauseating thud—echoed down the street and time stood still as I recollected it.(Two more things about that: who knew anyone in the Smashing Pumpkins was that strong, and what was the deal with that patch of CB’s sidewalk?). That we were all lit during both of these events was a major factor in how I remember it. I do have a pretty vivid memory of staying up all night with said dropped-on-head coworker and shining a flashlight into her eyes every few hours to make sure she didn’t have a concussion. Nothing like a possible trip to a NYC emergency room to sober one up. Another time, not anywhere near CBGBs, I walked across a train trestle with a local band (also not their real name). It was nighttime and I was on active stretch of track so if a train had come, I’d have had to jump into the river below. This was dumb and I was…wait for it…drunk. A lot of us probably have similar dumb-slash-dangerous stories from our past where we might say a silent, By the grace of… when we think of them.

I ponder why so much inebriated silliness? Because: exploration? youth (although honestly, is being in your thirties youth? I guess yes given the average acting-out age of the music business hovered between nine and fifteen)? modeling (monkey see, monkey do)? etc. For me, personally, I can also add Proving Myself and Keeping Up to that list. The unwritten playbook I followed was a learned thing from many rock’n’roll stories I’d heard and read over the years. The ones in Hit Parader and Creem celebrating the really-abominable actions of (mostly) men in bands. Led Zeppelin (their real name) and hotel rooms, Ozzy Osbourne (also real name) and most of his every waking moment, and on and on—all easily found on the internets, some probably false, but still often badges of honor posted in R&R annals. When I read those in the late-70s, somehow these escapades made me want to join that circus. And if I wanted to walk that tightrope, I’d need to learn how to balance while holding a bottle in one hand and a pen in the other.

By the time I entered the industry, women were beginning to hold their own in the did-they-really? category, although I’d venture to say (&, yes, I’m biased) that when Donita Sparks from L7 pulled out her tampon and threw it into the audience at 1992’s Redding, I saw it as more of a feminist act—albeit a messy on-the-edge one—rather than just an act-out-for-the-sake-of-it move. And while I watched sidestage, I remember thinking, No, wait, what is actually happening here? then I think my brain to noise….perhaps because I’d also had a few pints. It was also likely true that I thought it was bold and one way to respond to an audience throwing mud at them and being general assholes (if you want to see a clip of the hoo-haw, here. You’re welcome.). Then of course there was Courtney (yes, her real name). Lots. Of. Stories. Spending any amount of time in her presence was a funhouse ride without any safety bars in sight.

But back to why the bend toward extreme behavior rather than follow my own path to the story? Looking back, my first thought on that is: I didn’t know what my own path was. The reputation of this business of music was already set in my mind as one of keeping up, the thrill of it, the places it could take me as long as I played by the rules were already set in stone. Again, I wasn’t self-realized enough to even have my own set of rules. I knew enough to recognize icky, but even then I didn’t often put a stop to it. I wanted badly to be the cool girl. The one who could hang. The one they’d all confide in. The one who could handle it. Even a half-dozen or so shots later. That train of thought led to countless hazy dayz and nightz. Interviews slurry, but yet mostly transcribable. And a slew of inappropriate moments that only surface occasionally and are no doubt just the tip of my memory iceberg. Articles were written while consuming copious amounts of aspirin and egg-on-roll comfort food with ice coffee chasers. I feel I was always exhausted and worried. That I wasn’t doing my best, that everyone could see through my game face and knew I was actually a girl who craved eight hours of sleep after a nice hot bath while reading a book and sipping a glass of wine. But if that was true, why the hell was I in this industry? Gah, I’ve yet to answer that question fully, except to say the kind of excitement and acceptance I craved I searched for outside of myself. Looked to get from others, not trusting I could find any direction or piece (or peace) of the puzzle inside myself. Again, this is not a new story for anyone who has experienced coming of age.

Though what I think is true in how gender played havoc was that the women I found in the workplace didn’t have a lot of role models for how to bring their instincts and womanhood to the job. Follow the men was the motto I received. Do as he does. And also, there are only so many slots for the ladies anyway, so good luck with that. This may be changing incrementally in current settings with the entertainment industry probably not shifting even that fast. Glacial may come to mind.

This past week I listened to a great conversation between three cool women of a certain age (Everythings Fine, guest Sari Botton). A quote from one of the hosts, Jennifer Romolini (also printed on Sari’s blog Oldster), hits home: “These days I identify most with my 9-year-old self, the earnest, gentle weirdo I was before I started performing femininity, before I started performing an identity, … and before I started competing with other women for prizes that were never worthy of us in the first place.” Yep. The expectations. The prizes (boyfriends, husbands, careers, paychecks). And the word competing, while not the exclusive domain of females developing into adulthood, there is a special type of competition I experienced, dare say embraced, that had me proving I could handle it. I’d left the 7-year-old awkward me behind. The one in this clip who wants to skip, even though skipping in the new gangly body I was growing into felt floppy, but still I skipped dammit. The still-skipping girl (same vacation) here who knows she’s being filmed for vacation memories and isn’t totally sure how to perform, but yet again, still skipping.

Skipping now on this other end of life is something I do with so much less embarrassment or self-consciousness. Those middle passages, hazy as they are, were a learning-curve bitch that I wouldn’t trade in and that I don’t regret at all, yet obviously I’d love to have a talk with that woozy lady back then and tell her to TAKE A CAB HOME. BORROW THE DAMN MONEY. and STOP TRYING TO IMPRESS THAT GUY. HE’S A DOUCHEBAG. and also PLEASE DON’T FORGET TO PUSH RECORD ON YOUR TAPE RECORDER BECAUSE GAWD KNOWS, YOU’LL NEVER BE ABLE TO READ YOUR HANDWRITING AFTER THE FIFTH BEER AND THAT MICHAEL STIPE GUY MUMBLES.

* This is an homage to a delightful and hilarious piece by TAFFY BRODESSER-AKNER about going with her mom to Hempcon.

https://anchor.fm/dashboard/episode/e1n1r20