It's Been Two Weeks

So I thought I'd say something.

Sometimes something just seems to precious to blog about until I've relived it a million times in my head.

I saw this
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thanks to Brittany of Grief and High Delight fame and then repinned it on Pinterest (Where I live in my mind's eye). I thought, "Well that's pretty effing cool". It reminded me of Barbie and tween toys and playing with make-up before I used make-up to cover up the fact that I am no longer in the dawn of the particular digit duo I'm riding out.

Thus, on Halloween (and on the four days leading up to Halloween) I played with make-up and zippers. A few dry runs, like this year's annual pie bake-off... grr... and my annual volunteer gig at Gilda's club Halloween party taught me what I could love and what I did not love about my costume. I learned the best thing to tell people screaming "I LOVE your costume!!! WHAT IS IT??!".

"Oh. Me? I'm Eighties on the inside."  

 What I loved best about this costume was that on my way to its first unveiling at an amazing Friday night costume gala (3 days before Halloween -- Seriously people, why don't we just make Halloween the last Saturday of the month??) I was the only one dressed up.

There wasn't a single person on the street in a costume. No one. None. I had a zipper gash across my arm, one across my chest, one across my face. Make up and feathers exploded from the zipper wounds that slashed my body in to sections. I was ballgown clad and wearing Keds, gliding down Broadway.

 No one batted an eye. People just kept on walking and that is why "I <3 NYC" is so fracking  universal.  This seemingly simple experience reminded me why I will be a New Yorker until the day I die.

I have been a Misfits Fiend since the tenth grade. I even have the badge to prove it.

 On Halloween I did the thing that I wish I had known I would do ten years ago. Being a teenager would have been so much easier if my 'It's a Wonderful Life' fairy godfather angel would have swooped down during Marching Band practice and said. "Don't even worry about it kid. In ten years you'll have tickets to a Sold Out Misfit's show on All Hallow's Eve. Yeah. You're that cool."

On the night of I painted my face to the smashing sounds of  Horror Punk's Gods 'Halloween' and anticipated a delicious evening with skeletons and boys in leather jackets. It was so boss. I caught the parade in the Village, swung by a party in NoHo and then headed to Times Square - a place I'd normally rather be shot in than walk through. Oddly enough if you splash a ton of make-up on your face and have people running up to you asking if they can take their picture with you, Times Square is not so bad. 

Before long I was swinging my hair back and forth with a ton of dead heads to the melodic chords of Jerry Only. Some guy I met during the show gave me this poster. I was for once in my life caught without a sketchbook and he wanted to write his number down for me. He scrawled it on the back next to the copyright. I'm enjoying dating this kid because I know how much it hurt him to give me this. He loved this and he still parted with it because in that moment he liked me better. In a Sophie's Choice kind of way that makes him all the more endearing. Plus, let's be honest. Boy got taste. Is this not the coolest poster ever?
In nice news I got Jerry Only to sign it... after he signed my chest.... but that happens later....
WHAT? WHAT IS THAT YOU SAY FAIRY GODFATHER ANGEL??! 

I slowly made friends as I edged closer to the stage. I made a tremendous amount of show lead when a tall bouncer like boy in skull paint and a leather jacket grabbed me and yelled
"HOLY --- I've been watching you and you know all the effing words to this song!"
I screamed, "THAT'S WHY I AM HERE!"
He cupped his hand to his ear and hollered back "WHAT??!"
Gotta love a Misfit's show....

I thought i heard him yell whisper in to my ear "I'm getting you closer to the rail!"
But like that was going to happen.

Since I'm not built like a bouncer and have a natural tendency to swoon for Clark Kent way more than Superman.... I was not prepared to become a believer. Boy in skull paint made me reconsider my previously thought to be iron-clad taste in 90-pound-weaklings-who-know-how-to-rock-a-skinny-jean while he bowled Misfits fans out of my way like a Disney lumberjack. It wasn't long before I stood there, staring up in awe at the man himself. Jerry effing Only

um... yeah this is the view of the sex god from the underside of a skeleton pelvis.....yeah....OK. Moving on... We got to that part in a concert where the band is sweating. They want a break. They start slapping hands. If you've been against the rail at a show you know you might get to TOUCH their sopping wet hands and then live on that for like a week... It's not guaranteed, but if you get your hand out and up in the air you might get lucky.

When Jerry got to my outstretched hand he touched it. I swooned. He moved on. He came back. He gripped it.  What's that, Fairy Godfather??! What?? Then He (yes we're capitalizing that) didn't let go. He pulled on my arm.  "What is happening!?" I searched my memory and then recalled. I knew this...
I knew this sensation from years of not being able to haul my ass into a kayak unassisted. I was climbing the wall Neo-Style. I was being lifted up on stage. I closed my eyes. I tried to remember how to breathe. My hand brushed metal. I stood with His spike clad arm around me up on stage.

It was a heightened sensation I can only compare to the blessed few times I have been giving Morphine
(either the band or the drug -- I often fantasize about having these two together...)

Before depositing me back on the floor (only physically, I assure you I was mentally flying the rest of the evening) He said, "You stick around here, you hear?" Homonyms! The inventor of the Devil's LOCK used homonyms on me :) Then he licked my face and signed my chest.

Did I ask him to sign my chest?? Of course not. Someone gave him a Sharpie and he went to town. He was flourishing that Y before I realized what had happened. Apparently when you are a Rock God you can do stuff like that. I however didn't know it was an option.

I left the above photo's persona on the dance floor, where it was coaxed out of me by a set of groupies yelling.  "STOP BEING CUTE! THE MISFIT'S EFFING LEAD SINGER JUST SIGNED YOUR DAMN CHEST! YOU GOT TO BE ON STAGE! BE SEXY AND LOOK LIKE YOU DESERVED IT!!!"... Groupies are mean... This was one of the previous and unapproved of photos in this Times Square shoot.

I will be back to blogging as this girl...^  again later this week.
For now I bask in my on stage-sex goddess persona.
Let's go play some effing tunes.