I am snotty. Not in attitude but in physitude. A standard issue cold (Covid ruled out after multitudinous tests taken) complete with stuffed nose and jingly-jangly cough.

Yet speaking of attitude, I roll my mind back to early dayz in NYC and how introducing a bit of snotty sneer into my general personhood seemed interesting to me at the time. Moving to the Lower East Side in 1984 offered me plenty of opportunities to study that kind of posture. I had some black in my wardrobe. I had some vinyl imports in my record collection. The props were in place yet the execution was not. My outward-facing self tried (as witnessed in the photo above) to deliver on a NY-you-talkin’-to-me kind of stance. My inward-facing self was still Cali-ignited, usually squealing with excitement and wonder that I was living in New York City. Interning at Rolling Stone magazine. Sharing a sidewalk with … is that Dustin Hoffman? (Don’t look.) Wait, that’s Keith Richards in the corner booth, right? Or at least the top of his head. Can’t get a glimpse of his face smashed sideways on the table. (Don’t look. Stop staring.)

That was the thing. Of course, NYC was silly with celebrities yet the point was that you never. never. never were meant to make any sort of deal about it. Down in the East Village, where I started my life as a New Yorker, there was the downtown celebrity: The Lounge Lizards John Lurie, filmmaker Jim Jarmusch, musician Laurie Anderson, and occasionally Madonna, whose set outside Love Saves the Day on Second Ave. for Desperately Seeking Susan, I mistakenly loitered on thinking the clothes were for sale until someone with a bullhorn yelled “get that woman off the set.” In essence, I was both hyperaware and totally clueless when it came to balancing nonchalance with enthusiasm.

When I was working at Avenue A sushi, John Lydon (née Rotten) came in just before closing time. He was, in fact, snotty. Demanding, snarky, and indignant were also things he was that night when I was his waitress. Naturally, I wanted badly to be those things right back to him. I was completely unsuccessful. Couldn’t even bring myself to stop smiling at him, which made me angry at me-self. As I became more entrenched in the music industry, I realized that attitudes were shrugged on and off for persona. I’m not assuming John Lydon was a pussycat once the door was closed and he was alone with friends/loved ones, rather maybe there was a knob that adjusted the intensity. And also, to see him spouting a snotty sneer is what people expected.

That seems exhausting, really. There were the reputations to consider. The ones that went ahead of the stories. Billy Corgan of the Smashing Pumpkins had one. His combustibility scale read at around 9.5. I saw him pitch fastballs of fury at his band a couple of times and would think, There is for sure a better way even though the behavior was always couched in a passion-for-his-art aura, it still didn’t seem the absolute aces way to get the best out of the band. When it happened during an interview I did with the band, I expected it. Billy hadn’t had any sort of flame-out at his wedding months earlier or when we’d gone out socially because the point was that these were situation-appropriate explosions. Music related. For the good of all and so on. But still. And yet. Who knows. I could go reams on the gender divide around female musicians who expressed outward anger and their diminishing treatment by the press, this linked piece being particularly good on the timeline around how that female rage shifted when MTV came on the scene given physical presentation won out over expressed angry passion.

I’ve just finished the audiobook Anna by Amy Odell about Vogue/Condé Nast doyen Anna Wintour. I now know way more than I need about this woman, although the bits to do with publishing in the go-go magazine-making nineties gave me some shuddery-funny flashbacks. Something that resonated particularly was that once an attitude has been put into gear and driven for a while, a person can flatten stuff without anyone looking sideways. But you need to be working that persona from jump. And there are layers and nuance and things people don’t see or care to see behind the curtain of personalities.

My approach of just being happy to be accepted is a pathology all its own. And honestly, I didn’t really work that hard to achieve snarky, side-eye status. However, there were times when being adjacent to outburst moments was loads of fun. At the 1995 MTV Awards, Michael Jackson performed (and performed and performed) and toward the end of it, a bunch of kids came out to sing with him, at which point Moby, who I’d come with, stood up and shouted, “Keep him away from the children.” Lots of people in the audience laughed. I did for sure. But also a security guard appeared at the end of our row and my boss at the time, Elektra CEO Sylvia Rhone, gave me a talking-to the next day as if I were in charge of his behavior. Moby, an artist on Elektra records, so he was allowed and got no talking to. It was also well-known he was outspoken. I, on the other hand, as head of video promotion, was an employee meant to uphold a certain, er, tone. I mean, I didn’t get fired, it was just a moment. I hope to gawd I didn’t apologize, but honestly, I might have. When I left that job once my contract was done, I do remember being so happy to walk out for the final time: no more pretending is what I thought. And, well, here’s what I learned, there’s always a little pretending in life. And room for some attitude, and even some chances to get snotty at times. All fine, rolling along, jingly-jangly.

Can someone pass me a tissue?