Christine Schoenwald's Open Salon Blog

Too Old to Rock?

Fri, 19 Oct 2012 14:10:41 -0400

It’s 1981 and I’m at the famous Starwood club near the Sunset Strip. I'm standing very close to the stage and pogo-ing to the music. The band is the Nu-kats and I know they are going to be a huge music sensation!

At one point the singer Freddie Moore puts his hands on my shoulders, and using me as leverage, propels himself off the stage. Luckily I’m able to keep my balance or we both would be on the disgustingly sticky floor. Although Freddie has the features of a visiting alien, with white blonde hair, red eyes and demon teeth, I am so excited I can barely stand it. It is the closest I’ve ever gotten to a rock star and I have become an important part of the act! He choose me to touch!

The Nu-kats wouldn't ever become a household name and none of their other incarnations like “Skogie” “Skogie and the Flaming Pachucos” or just simply “The Kats” would make any kind of musical dent whatsoever.

I buy their “Plastic Facts” album at the door of the Starwood, as I exit, at the card table set up to sell Nu-Kats merch. They may have named their album as a tribute to the album " Plastic Letters" by Blondie or maybe they didn't think " I was a teenage shoplifter " was hip enough.

Although “Plastic Facts” contains the catchy single “Busy Body” whose lyrics are so obvious you don't even need to hear the song to know them. If you thought immediately “She’s got a busy body and she knows how to use it” you would be correct. Even with championship songwriting skills and a leader singer who knows how to use audience members as catapults, nothing really happens with the Nu-kats. Freddy Moore does get a little bit of fame by proxy when he is revealed to be the "Moore" in Demi Moore's name. He is the husband she rarely speaks of.

Last Saturday I went to a very different kind of concert, though one also featuring someone who I saw in the 1980s-Aimee Mann. I have seen her perform many times and she always puts on a great show, with her musicianship and her surprisingly funny off the cuff comments. You wouldn’t guess by listening to her music or seeing her that she would be so hilarious and yet she is.

It had been awhile since I last went to a concert and I don’t know if I would have gone this time if I hadn’t been given the tickets as a gift.I had to think if maybe I was too old to go to rock concerts and does the fact that I use the phrase “rock concerts” confirm that my concert going time has indeed expired? Does anyone under the age of 40 use the words rock and concert together?

What do people go to now? The word "Rave" seems dated and "concert" seems too stuffy and old-fashioned. "Rock show" was out before I even started going and "experience" sounds like a laser show.

My very music savvy friend Kirsten recently wrote that there was nothing sadder than people who only listened to music from when they were young, unless it was people who were older and limited their musical taste to the newest of the new music or something like that. She was talking about a radio show and thought that there should be a balance of both-the old and the new, so as not to appear as a pathetic oldster.

First of all, I don't care how aged it makes me, I will never give up my 80s music. It actually makes me happy. I do think a way round just listening to old music is listening to artists who may have been on the scene for a good long while but are still writing and singing new music. They are still being creative and fresh and if occasionally they sing one of their hits so be it!

I used to have my show going outfit. My uniform was a baby doll dress, black leggings and very thick Dr. Marten’s shoes.I had to wear really heavy shoes as I would usually be standing amongst other eager concert goers and at that time you could pretty much figure on the area right below the stage turning into a mosh pit. I knew that I would probably have to duck a punch in the face or two, slam dance and have my toes stepped on. I needed foot protection! If I could have worn a protective face mask or body padding I would have done that to but that was too dorky.

I also carried a very small purse that held my license, money and dark red lip stick. I could put the strap over my shoulder at the front of my body, leaving my hands free for pushing people out of my way.

I had developed a method for working my way to the front of the stage, secretly and slyly, without making anyone angry. I was just a short girl trying to find her friends who appeared to be right up next to the stage."Excuse me" I'd say and then politely push my way past the guys with the drunk girls sitting on their shoulders. "I see them, they are right up here" I'd lie.

Now when I go to a concert I have my full purse and wallet, comfortable shoes in case I have to stand for a standing ovation and any outfit that isn’t too fancy or uncomfortable. I won’t go to a show that only has “festival seating” meaning you have to get there early to get one of the few seats they have available or you’ll be standing. I have to have an assigned seat. My standing days are over.

It used to be that everybody in the audience was getting high or blasted on beer and smoking like beatniks. Now all that is allowed in the theater is bottled water and even the obvious musicians who were seated in our row obeyed that rule. Where's the rebellion and where's the anarchy? Everyone seemed to passively enjoy the show.

But what is the same between the Nu-kats concert and the Aimee Mann concert? I'm still on the younger side of the audience. I know-- how likely is it that most of the other members of the audience are way older than me? It’s as if the concert was held on a retirement cruise or something. I don’t get it. Aimee is my age and could pass for much younger especially when she does a “jumping jack flash” kind of move and I would think her fan base( because of her amazing songwriting skills) would have various generations of music lovers. But rather than green mohawks, most of the audience is silver-haired.

One of the more hilarious aspects of this experience was our usher, a man who must be 95 if he’s a day. He reminded me of the character of the feeble old butler who can barely walk, let alone serve. When the Usher got to the row behind us, and saw an obvious roadie talking a nap, he tried to jostle the roadie awake but the roadie was out cold.The butler kept trying to rouse the roadie and get him to vacate the seat but the kid kept on sleeping. You could tell the usher didn't have the time or energy to get confrontational and finally just gave up. It was probably well past his break time.

I think overall the audience these days are more respectful than they used to be. I remember going to shows where people talked all the way through it and then screamed really stupid requests-music hecklers.

I would have bet money that someone would scream “Voices Carry” and no-one did.A guy two seats away did keep mumbling it but even he didn’t want to look like an idiot. Aimee doesn't suffer fools gladly.

I enjoyed the show and was so glad I went.I realized I need to start going to concerts more often again. All the concerts that I have been to have been markers in my life. I've won tickets, had strangers hold my hand when I've been upset and I've stood in the pouring rain, getting soaked just to hear a favorite song. I can't say age has made me appreciate concerts more but they have made me more selective about the ones I choose to go to.

So I'm going to keep going to concerts, probably well into old age. I may not slam dance in the mosh pit anymore but on the plus side, no-one is using me as a human spring board either.

Getting Caught Grubby Handed

Tue, 25 Sep 2012 13:09:47 -0400

The grocery store’s security guard looked me in the eye and repeated his question. “Where’s the magazine you were looking at?” He assumed I wasn’t perusing the pages of Good Housekeeping or Ladies Home Journal that were in front of me on the magazine stand. He was right, I hadn’t been looking at those magazines. I was much more interested in Tiger Beat and the secrets of Donny Osmond’s purple socks. As the guard confronted me,my brain started to whiz around inside my skull. I was nine and not an experienced liar but I sure didn't want to get arrested for shoplifting.If ever there was a time for a big fat juicy lie, that time was now.

“It's right here” I said, pointing to a Life magazine. Then in order to back up my claim, I pulled some crumpled dollar bills out of my shorts, putting them into my grubby palm and showed them to him. “I have money, see.” I said it a bit belligerently as if I was some sort of 1940s wise guy. He didn’t question that the pile of ones was enough to pay for the magazine but wondered if I was one of those kinds of kids who was a thrill-stealer. The guard stood for a moment considering me, the magazines and the money and finally said " This isn't a library if you want to read it, you'll have to buy it." Then being satisfied that I wasn’t the thief that he suspected, he turned away and went towards the produce aisle.Perhaps he could catch someone sampling some raw almonds or eating a berry or two before purchase. What a fool! I had outsmarted the copper and had discovered a talent I hadn’t known I had-lying!

After taking a minute to catch my breath, I had to decide what to do next. I had avoided capture and jail-time all while the magazine sat hot against my chest. The hard corners were digging into my flesh but I couldn’t chance removing it until I got to a safe place. There might be some kind of magazine censor at the door of the store. Clearly, I had to dump the stolen goods and fast. But where in the grocery store was there a safe place for me to unload my ill gotten media?

As I was making my way to the coffee and baking products aisle, the 7th aisle in, I remembered that I hadn’t come to the store to shoplift and even worse that I hadn’t come alone. I was there with my father and I was supposed to be getting some cereal. He was probably wondering what took me so long in deciding between Captain Crunch classic and Captain Crunch with Crunchberries! My father could be searching for me in the store right now! Ugh my lying skills had improved but my timing skills still needed a lot of work.

After making sure I was alone in my aisle and that there wasn't any security camera capturing me, I slowly pulled the magazine out from my shirt and casually placed it on top of some of the pre-ground generic coffee. It would take them hours to discover the misplaced magazine! I pretended to be carefully considering some baking chocolate as I slowly walked down the aisle. In reality, I was waiting to see if I had truly committed the perfect almost crime.

I came up with a Plan B and the B stood for breakage! If the FBI or store security had caught me removing the nearly stolen magazine from my shirt and came from the back with their guns blazing (well it never hurts to dream big) I didn’t want to go down like those other infamous thieves, Bonnie and Clyde.

My plan was that I would spill any glass jars I could find, making a breaked goods obstacle course and hope that the lawman would slip on the big clean up on Aisle 7. It would hilarious and give me some time to hijack a shopping cart and use it as a shield helping me to get past anyone who might try to stop me. " Ha ha you'll never get me alive and I'm going to take this cart out of the store, maybe even out of the parking lot!!" But no one came and I didn’t have to resort to slapstick. But It never hurts to live your life like a 1930s movie anyway.

I went to go look for my dad.

I found him checking prices on some pickled red cabbage in a jar. It was one of those foods that proved that even though he had lived in the United States, he was still an Austrian at heart. He loved his red cabbage, his pickled herring and his brown bread. Luckily or unluckily there were always plenty available to purchase. There's never a huge run on red cabbage unlike canned pumpkin or brown gravy.

We had walked to the store together. As he had never learned to drive, we walked almost everywhere and quickly. He’d tell me stories on the way to and from. A lot of the tales he told me were allegorical stories that he used to show me how much he expected from me and how he believed I would be the hope of my family.

As my father continued to choose groceries, and put them carefully in the cart I suddenly realized what it would have done to my dad if I had been caught shoplifting. He would have been devastated and even worse--disappointed.

I was the only person that my father could pin his hopes onto and I had almost ruined it all. He would not have looked at me in the same way and there would have always been a shield of sadness covering his eyes. I’d always be his Christine, his daughter, his thief.

It would be great if I could say that after that moment in the store, I never shoplifted again but it wouldn’t be true.I never shoplifted again with my father( or any adult I was associated with) in the store but I still shoplifted.

I stole a lot of Ho Hos, marshmallow pies and those pocket sized apple pies. There was no big incident that made me stop, though maybe it was having baby-sitting money that allowed me to purchase any of the treats I desired.

Luckily I was only caught that one time and even then I was able to talk my way out it. But I never stole anything big or anything that really would have affected anyone’s life negatively except for the fact that I nearly stole my father’s hope away.

Yet Another Piece About My Mother

Tue, 11 Sep 2012 14:09:37 -0400

After receiving the break-up letter from my mother, I waited about a month and called her. I should have waited two months or maybe I should have started our “break” from each other right then and there.

She began the conversation by saying that sometimes it was necessary to get mad at someone and went on to describe how she had marched into the dentist’s office next door and yelled at Flora, the dentist’s wife and head receptionist.

My mother will plead old age if she forgets someone’s name or can’t read the restaurant bill but she makes no excuses for expressing her umbrage. She’s earned that right.

Before my mother decided she was done with me, she had been somewhat incommunicado. I kept trying to call her; using her code of ring once, hang up and call back but had no luck in actually getting a hold of her.

Though I know she has one of those life alerts, she doesn’t always wear the Life Alert pendant if it doesn’t go with her outfit. She’s 87 and still vain. Sometimes even the snappiest dresser can’t rock a Life Alert with a tweed skirt. I can never be sure if she’s fallen and can’t get up and if her life alert console is plugged in and working.

After calling various family members, I finally called the Dentist’s office which is next door. They confirmed a mom sighting that morning. When I finally got a hold of her and told her that I had called the dentist’s office, she was furious that they hadn’t come over to tell her and/or check on her. She thought they should have investigated further. They made sure that her two real teeth and gums were healthy, why hadn’t they made sure the rest of her was too?

My mother’s point in the “yelling at Flora” story was that it is always better to get your feelings out then keep them to yourself. Another of her theories is that people who keep their emotions to themselves have strokes. Oh and people who are too kind to their fellow humans have heart attacks. She has quite a litany of medical theories. If her theories are correct, it is unlikely that she will have either a heart attack or a stroke. Her cantankerous personality has possibly elongated her life.

After giving me a full report of all her animals inside and out, she finally came to the topic that I was dreading- me and her assessment of my behavior during our last visit. She was not happy with me, as her letter had indicated. I pointed out to her how she was wrong about a number of things; for instance how could she have seen the petulant look on my face when I was seated in the front of the car and she was seated in the back? Then there's the fact that she only has one good eye. You might be wondering what the back stories are to my mother having only one good eye and one good ear?

Although my mother’s surgeon suggested that she have cataract surgery in both eyes, she only had it in one and that was after waiting way too long in the first place. She can see well in the fixed eye, had no trouble with the procedure-- just refuses to have the second eye done. I think she’s afraid she won’t wake up but since they don’t put you under anyway and she knows this, the whole thing doesn’t make any sense.

She’s deaf in one ear because she dove into a pool oddly as a teenager and lost a couple of important bones in her ears. But as I like to say, the rocks in her head make up for the lost bones in her ears. I’m sure using the end of old bobby-pins to clean out her ears didn’t help the inner workings of her ears either.

Back to our what is now a "heated" conversation-- I’m letting my mother get out all my crimes when she calls me a “pissant.” I kind of know that isn’t the word she means but I’ve had enough and end the call.

The next day I look up the definition and the online dictionary confirms what I suspected-- pissant means “insignificant.” Having a parent call their child “insignificant” seems immeasurably cruel and I get very upset.

I’m sitting at the computer at work crying about how my own mother believes that my life has meant nothing. I’m sad and then I get mad. What a horrible thing to say. In the back of my mind, I know she actually meant “pissy” but still that’s not a great thing to call your daughter anyway.

I phone her when I get home and I’m pissed -off. I’m glad she commented about how much she respected anger during a last conversation because she’s about to get a huge dose of it.

“I’m not insignificant” I scream into the phone. She’s confused, she never called me insignificant. I say” well that’s what pissant means.” She then goes on to say if she had meant insignificant” she would have said it or another word. How was I supposed to know that? Sometimes when my mother speaks, it is like a foreign language in which there isn’t a translator nearby.

Suddenly I feel as if I’m on the witness stand and I have to make a plea for why I shouldn’t be convicted of the crime of being a bad daughter. I point out to her that I am the only one who gives her presents that she actually likes: Garibaldi cookies, jam and fun stamps. I remind her that every year I make a delicious Thanksgiving dinner at my house to transport to her house. How about how she’s never had to bail me out of jail or visit me in the hospital for any reason and how I can use an old paper bag to wrap a package like a professional package wrapper, what about that?

Reluctantly my mother does agree I make some delicious turkey but that’s about all she’ll give me. And because she does enjoy my cooking so much, she and my niece come up with a visiting plan.

The plan is this-instead of Andy and me driving up to my mother’s house and staying with her for three or four days, maximum, we will go to my niece and nephew’s house and stay with them. Then the four of us and possible some other family members (as back up) will go to my mother’s house (food in hand) for the day. Yes my mother is proposing that we have supervised visits like convicts or lost custody parents.

When I say to my niece that I think it is insulting that I should be subjected to a supervised visit with my own mother, she replies “you aren’t the one being supervised.” Then she says something very wise “Your problem is that you think of your mother like a mother.”

When my mother sends me a card in which she says “I was bemused at your indignation – I was not, am not critical of your life-just your crappy way of behaving here.” I’m not exactly comforted. Did I mention I am on my best behavior around my mother and that I try not to get into arguments or in any way enrage her? I would call my behavior “nice.”

She signs her card thusly” I would say love you but the word love is used wrongly so that it has lost its meaning, so affectionately yours, your mother.”

You know what Mom? I think it would be okay for a mother to say that she loved her daughter. You’re not being graded or judged on your word choice. This isn't "Words with Friends" here.

If my mother can’t say she loves me, then why are we in any contact at all? Andy doesn’t understand why I need a break from her right now. I just find any contact with her painful. I don’t want to be the bigger person and frankly I don’t have the energy to try and get along with her. When I do try, it obviously doesn’t work and she still ends upset with me.

My mother may not understand love, affection and family but she does respect anger. She may be 88 but that doesn’t erase what I’m feeling right now. I need to take my niece’s advice and think of my mother as that crazy lady that I occasionally have a turkey dinner with.

Scared Healthy

Tue, 4 Sep 2012 14:09:05 -0400

My father had a heart attack while walking through a sporting goods store and died. But it took Rosie O'Donnell having one that has finally scared me enough to start taking my health seriously. I guess you could say she's scared me straight.

I'm not even a big fan of Ms O'Donnell. I used to like her show a long time ago but her constant lengthy singing segments turned me off so that I turned her off. Her renditions of various songs from Broadway shows were horrendous. It isn't that I'm jealous because I can't sing, it's because she can't either. At least I don't thrust my bad singing on the public ( not since the Pajama Game in high school.)

We don't have much in common besides both of us being close in age, in size and having a sense of humor. While I'm not gay that is one of the things I most appreciate about her, that and the work she does for LGBT families and children.

But hearing about her heart attack scared the beejesus out of me. If someone with a huge staff of people whose only jobs are to keep her healthy and happy can have a heart attack, then someone like me certainly could.

If I'm being honest with myself, it's obvious I've been gambling with my health for awhile now. I didn't take it seriously.

I used to say that my secret to staying young was immaturity. Young people think that they are immortal and I guess I thought if I pretended I was immortal I would be. Act as if you will live forever and maybe you will?

I have been shortening my life by not eating right, not exercising enough and with my indulgent attitude. It isn't being a hypochondriac to be fully aware of what is going on with one's body and to listen to the experts about health, it is is being smart.

Not to be glib about this but it is surprising that I haven't had a heart attack already. I have a family history of heart attacks, I have high blood pressure and I'm overweight. Now the stress of having one is adding to the likelihood of it happening.

We gripe about celebrities and their causes. Why should we vote for someone just because some sitcom star from the 80s does or why should we care about global warming because an Oscar nominated star cares ? We care because they are our role models whether they or we like it or not. The stars help to open our eyes.

Here's the thing, I can't go yet. I haven't even acheived most of my goals and dreams, not even half. I only recently got really focused. And I believe I can make them happen if I'm here to do it.

One of my friends has this joke that I will die when I'm 59 but because of my birthday being at the end of Sept. it will look like I died at 60. Every now and then he will send me an email about some celebrity dying before the age of 59 and say "here's someone else who would have loved to live until 59." He thinks this is hilarious but I also realize he's been trying to scare me straight too.

Naturally I received one of these emails this morning about Michael Duncan Clark-dead at 54 of a heart attack. I feel so terrible for his friends and family and yes so freaked out for myself. My friend is hoping that out of spite and the need to prove him wrong I will take better care of myself and live longer than his prediction. His death age for me is nearly a decade away but if I don't get it together, I may make him wrong by living even less than he predicts.

Fear and spite are great motivators for me and I'm going to do what I have to do to live. When it comes to health and life it is more than okay to make it all about you. Being self-centered and honest can help add years, and I finally get it. It wasn't as if I really was stopping time and remaining young forever.I was venturing into this good night for a beer run not to make peace with health and aging.

It Happened to That Guy, It Could Happen to You

Thu, 16 Aug 2012 17:08:11 -0400

David Dean Bottrell, the very popular writer/actor/teacher, was pepper-sprayed last night. The kids who pepper-sprayed him didn’t rob him or beat him up. They simply chose him at random, sprayed him, walked away, came back and tried to spray him again. They seemed to determined to make sure he was well doused with the toxic spray, they were malicious with their follow through.

The cruelty of it is staggering to me. The effects of the pepper-spray lasted for several hours, were horribly painful and caused David to have trouble breathing. Why would anyone think that this would be a fun thing to do?

Is it funnier if your victim is screaming with pain or is it more comical if they search blindly for something to wash their eyes out with? Did these miscreants go on to spray other people or did they hang back and watch from across the street the show that was the result of their hideous actions?

The name David Dean Bottrell may not be immediately familiar to you. But if I say the man who played the extremely creepy Lincoln Meyer on Boston Legal, you might. David is a very popular character actor; in fact, he just did a hilarious turn on True Blood this past Sunday night. He's the kind of actor that when you see him you say " Oh that guy! I love that guy!"

He is such a great actor and so generous with his talent that he even teaches. I know a woman who got so much from his class that her entire career was elevated. He is that rare individual who can do and can teach. It was right after his class, that he was accosted with the pepper-spray.

Besides having lot of success with his acting, he’s also an accomplished writer. In fact I believe it was his writing that first got him some notice and started him on his award winning career path.

Mainly this pepper-spray story is his to tell and even the little bit that he posted about it on Facebook was shocking, saddening and truthfully told. But the fact that upon hearing it made me cry compels me to write something about it as well. That something like this could happen to such a wonderful person and artist makes me sick.

I was first blown away by his acting in a production of Streep Tease: An evening of Meryl Streep Monologues Performed by an all Male Cast. David played the part of Karen from “Out of Africa” and he was amazing, in a cast of amazing actors. It was one of those performances that I will never forget. I even saw the show more than once, something that I rarely do.

I also saw his critically acclaimed one man show David Dean Bottrell Makes Love and it was incredible. I laughed, I cried and it seemed to be over way too quickly. David knows his way with an audience, even if the piece hadn’t been brilliantly written (which it was) he could have sold it. Yeah, he’s that good a performer.

I was honored to have him read an essay a couple times in my essay show Piñata. He always raises the bar with his insightful and thought provoking yet still hilarious words. And if you can perform the heck out of a reading, he does that too.

But I don’t know him all that well. What I do know is fear, human cruelty and evil. It doesn’t make it worse that this happened to someone I have met or that it happened to a gifted artist. What makes it so horrible is that these kids did it at all, had no qualms about doing it and will continue to do it. Their indifference to pain is horrifying to me.

How someone could see David returning to his car after teaching, think “he’d be good to spray” and then actually walk over and do it? As David was trying to wash out his eyes with bottled water, they came back and tried to do it again. Luckily they were unsuccessful the second time as he had locked himself in his car.

This wasn’t a crime of passion or even a hate crime. It was a crime of mean and means. They had the spray, he was there and they had no second thoughts about spraying him.

Like the people who were pepper-sprayed during the Occupy Wall Street, David certainly hadn’t done anything to deserve this treatment-- though does anyone ever deserve to be pepper-sprayed? I guess if someone is trying to rape you or in some way brutalize you, pepper-spray is called for as a defensive measure. But pepper-spray should never be used offensively or because you think it would be a good time to watch someone suffer.

I live with fear daily. I’m afraid of driving on the freeway, of steep escalators with no supporting walls, heights, roller coasters and people climbing in my open windows at night murdering me. No matter how hot it is at night, my windows are shut tight. But I've never been afraid of being randomly pepper-sprayed.

My house has been robbed, my car stolen and a crazy homeless man grabbed my breasts on the street but I’ve never been mugged. When I worked at the bank, I there for a bank take-over robbery and held at gun-point but it was never just me solo.

After David was sprayed, he was blinded and by himself on the street. Why didn’t anyone help him? As bad as the cruelty that the perpetrators showed, it’s the indifference of anyone watching and not helping that would have been equally as sadistic. He didn’t mention anyone else being around, so maybe he was truly alone.

When you are an actor, especially a great actor, you have to be vulnerable, you have to overcome fear and put yourself out there, exposed again and again. How do you do this after a crime has been committed against you for no reason other than some sick individuals thought it was fun?

I’m not naïve enough to think that there isn’t crime and evil all around us. That some times people are mean just to be mean and that no what how great and creative we are in our lives, we are not always safe. I know that no matter what, we can never be sure of our own safety.

But I also know is that we have to try to live our lives with kindness even when cruelty randomly strikes us or near to us or to people we hold in high esteem. If I didn’t think that people were mostly nice and that there is still a lot of joy and discovery in living, then I would be too fearful to even leave the house.