The Mostly Sexist Agenda of Nasty Nicknames for Female Celebrities

I'm reading Sady Doyle's amazing new book Trainwreck: The Women We Love to Hate, Mock, and Fear...and Why and I remembered this list I made back in 2013 (when I had a lot more time to think about about the plight of female celebrities then I do now). It was up online somewhere then, but I'm reposting it here. With the passage of time, there are a few things I would change about what I wrote-- but there are also plenty of new nicknames I could add to list.

It's a societal disparity as old as the hills, women are reviled for the same things men are celebrated, and the evidence is in the pop culture pudding. For every one Wacko Jacko there are ten Parasite Hiltons, but not all of these nasty nicknames for female celebrities can be traced back to the media, and an editor out to craft a catchy caption or headline.  Both #1. and #3. came courtesy of on- and- off friends of the starlet, while #8. was coined by the star’s fans as a term of endearment-- she's actually embraced the moniker, and sometimes uses it to describe herself.

An especially nasty nickname can attach itself to a celebrity for time eternal-- the implication the nickname makes becomes the association the public makes with the celebrity, and that implication can become impossible to shake. The majority of these nasty nicknames just reiterate what the public has come to expect from its famous females, and the designee has been slapped with the moniker for not living up to those ideals: Fergy fug, for ascending to fame while being in some nameless, faceless, editor's very important mind, unattractive; Hanoi Jane for being so vocal and visible with her anti-establishment views during the Vietnam War; and the Portly Pepper pot, because who would ever believe that the leader of the free world would risk everything for a chubby girl?

A few of the ignoble nicknames originated with Perez Hilton, who in the early years of his popular gossip blog, seemed to create them daily for sport. Since becoming a father, he has publicly resolved to be less "mean-spirited" towards the celebrities he covers. It’s a testament to the entrenchment of some of these nicknames that they still remain in active use despite their creator's disavowal.

Below is a list of famous females who nasty nicknames may live on in infamy:

1. Fire Crotch

This nickname for Lindsay Lohan came from the mouth and mind of brat scion Brandon Davis, who imparted it upon the world while being videotaped by the paparazzi, in the company of Paris (Parasite) Hilton. The prurient interest of the part of Lindsay's body that it purports to reference, combined with Brandon's Mr. Jeeves- style patois as repeatedly enunciates "Crotch" like "Crutch" in the TMZ video of the encounter have contributed to the moniker’s memorability.


2. Sexual Napalm

Not a nickname per se, but pretty much, considering how often "Sexual Napalm" is mentioned when Jessica is. "Jessica Simpson, Weight Watcher's new spokeswoman, Sexual Napalm!" "Jessica Simpson gives birth to daughter, Sexual Napalm!" This description for Simpson’s sexual explosiveness came courtesy of musician/pro boyfriend John Mayer, who kisses and spills more often, and much more graphically than Taylor Swift, but gets light scoldings for his disclosures, not unfunny award show parodies. (Mayer also informed the world that Jennifer Love Hewitt's body was "Wonderland," and Jennifer Aniston was "clingy.")

3. Bimbo Summit/ "The Animal"

 

 For a short time in 2006, Britney Spears, Lindsay Lohan and Paris Hilton appeared to be friends; they engaged in friend -like activities, such as entering and exiting clubs together, and carpooling. Photographic lenses everywhere were kept in a constant state of contortion as paparazzos followed their every move, and clamored to get shots up their skirts as they made them. The tabloids had a field day with the threesome, concocting headlines like "The Three Horsewomen of the Apocalypse" and "Bimbo Summit." The neat & tidy celebrity package didn't last long, and after the friendships fractured, sources close to Paris leaked her private nickname for Britney: "The Animal," because according to Paris, Britney never thought before she acted. (I would like to note that I think most animals think a lot.)

4. Mushy Fartone

Let’s do some free association with Mushy Fartone. Mushy: soft, like a bowl of potatoes, or maybe squishy, like the belly of the Pillsbury Dough Boy. It’s impossible to free associate with Fartone. It’s just “Fart one.” When you put “Mushy” and “Fartone” together, what’s the implication? “Fat Gassy Girl?” When I was in junior high, the bane of my existence was a boy named Leonard Reebe. Whenever I saw Leonard in class, or crossed paths with him in the hallway, he would intone loudly enough for everyone to hear,"Beee-Owna!” a parody he’d contrived of my own name, Fiona. The insult was in how he said the name, and in the visual it conjured. "Bee-Owna!" was slovenly, and bred parakeets in fetid cages.  “Bee-Owna!” never left the house, and ate TV dinners while watching The Price is Right in a muumuu. “Bee-Owna” was my Mushy Fartone. If we think of Perez’s website like a movie, Mushy Fartone is the equivalent of Perez casting Mischa to play the role of a Garbage Pail Kid, when, by the nature of her being a young starlet in Hollywood, she tried out for role of the ingénue.

5. Hanoi Jane

This is a real patch. Snoopy won't forget. A Google search will bring up pages and pages of these Anti-Fonda images, some calling for her execution as a traitor, and many of them handcrafted. (It’s interesting to think of dudes getting the craft bug inspired solely by their hatred of Jane Fonda.) Though Jane stands by her opposition to the Vietnam War, she's apologized numerous times for the infamous photograph of her sitting on an anti-aircraft battery and has since said she feels that the picture was staged as a photo op by the Vietcong.

6. Waity Katy

Kate Middleton earned this disparaging moniker for the eight years she dated Prince William before he proposed, the implication being that:
1.she withstood the wait because of her want for the crown.
2. she withstood the wait because as a smart, attractive young woman from a wealthy family with a Master of Arts degree from the University of Saint Andrews she had nothing better do.
3. she withstood the wait because she's a pathetic doormat.
After she and William became engaged in 2010, the nickname changed to Lazy Katy because Middleton left her job to prepare for the round the clock job of being a monarch.

7. Wino

 In the same way that identifiable, one- word celebrity names like Prince, or Madonna, are often considered to be the height of fame, nasty, one- word celebrity nicknames could be considered the depths of cruelty. In the excellent 1962 film, Lilith, Kim Hunter’s character says to Warren Beatty’s, "Insanity seems a lot less sinister to watch in a man than a woman." If the sentiment‘s true, it's a sinister inequality that the media relishes chronicling.


8. Glammy Skank

In the late nineties, Courtney Love started a website called kittyradio.com. It became one of the most popular websites on the net, and for a blink and you missed it moment, Courtney was heralded by the media as an e-entrepreneur. By the early aughties, Courtney had fallen out with the administrators of the site, but during that brief window when everyone was getting along swimmingly, her fans at kittyradio gifted their queen with this honestly affectionate nickname. "Glammy skank," for glamorous skank.

9. Horse Face

Women love Sarah Jessica Parker for her sartorial flair and film and television roles, while men despise her, possibly because they felt ignored all those Sunday nights during Sex and the City's six season run. Routinely ranking in the top three in those vile online "Ugliest Women in the World" lists (as did Amy Winehouse, before her death), there is even a web site called sarahjessicaparkerlookslikeahorse.com, which bills itself as "a loving tribute to the aging style icon," and whose webmaster refers to themselves as "the stable master" and asks for donations to the site to "protect aging NYC carriage horses."

10. Fergy Fug

Sometimes I wonder, if, at a tender age, young boys are taken aside, and told a secret by older men. Actually, what they are told isn't the secret; it’s that this multi-generational information-sharing actually occurs. "Quickest way to wound a woman, young man? Tell her she's ugly."  Hurt people, hurt people, blah, blah, I get it, but why the special relish when it comes to lobbing looks-related insults at famous women? Does it feel like some kind of power equalizer? Maybe you'd never give me the time of day, but I can still tear you down physically. How come women don't come up with nicknames like this for famous men we find to be unattractive? Or annual "Ugliest Men" lists?

11. Miseralba

At one time, Jessica Alba, was considered to be one of the most beautiful women in the world, she starred in films like Honey and Sin City that showcased her sexiness, and was voted number one on AskMen.com's list of the "99 Most Desirable Women." Then she got married, had two children in quick succession, and the media decided she was miserable. Why the sudden change in good feeling? Subtle indictment on the fuckability factor of married moms? Are the kids and the ring a wrench in the wet dream?

12. Super Head

Actress and model Karrine Stevens received this nickname for her purported superior oral sex skills from the rappers she worked with and dated while appearing as an extra in music videos for the likes of Jay-Z, L.L Cool J and R. Kelly. Segueing her industry experience into a successful writing career, Stevens has written three New York Times bestsellers and owns her own publishing company. Still, websites like Bossip.com default to adjectives like “slorebag” and “Hollywood jizz-bucket,” over “resourceful” and “industrious” when describing her accomplishments.

13. The Portly Pepper Pot

In 1999, Monica Lewinsky was the most famous twenty-two year old woman in the world. President Clinton would infamously go on television and lie about her, saying, “I did not have sexual relations with that woman, Miss Lewinsky,” and the populace would come to learn in John Mayer- worthy detail just what the commander in chief considered to be a sex act. Feminist leaders were hesitant to publicly lend their support to Lewinsky, because of the risk to the liberal- leaning Clinton administration. There was a locker-room undercurrent to much of the scandal, and the flat-out disbelief from bros in the media that the most powerful man in the world would risk the presidency for a chubby girl in a beret. (Paula Jones had received much of the same ribbing about her looks, and would go on to have plastic surgery, paid for by right-wing donors.) The New York Post came up with "pepper pot" moniker, and used it interchangeably with Monica’s name in its coverage of the debacle. Interestingly, Urban Dictionary defines a “pepper pot” as  1. (noun) - An assertive person who shares opinions or acts in ways that are stronger than the extant social power structure might predict. Especially women, since men often wrongly expect women to be weak, acquiescent, or void of certain types of knowledge. Monica has said that she dealt with the stress of the media onslaught by knitting, and in 2000, became a paid spokeswoman for Jenny Craig.

14. Nauseating Nancy

Usually, in a last act of crass politesse, a nasty media nickname is retired after the designee's death, especially when the death is a tragic one, as was the case with Amy Winehouse and the vile "Wino." Not so after the death of Nancy Spungen, the drug addicted, and mentally- ill girlfriend of Sex Pistols bassist Sid Vicious. Even after her gory murder in Room 100 of the Chelsea Hotel, the press kept it open season on her character. The ante was upped even further when Malcolm McLauren and Vivenne Westwood began selling t-shirts poking fun at her murder that read "She's dead, I'm alive, I'm yours," above a picture of Sid.

15. The Dragon Lady/ "Yoko Ono" as insult

Asked how she felt about the racist nickname bestowed upon her by the British media, Yoko Ono turned "The Dragon Lady" on it's head, saying, ""I'm kind of honored to be a dragon lady. The dragon is a very powerful, mythical animal . . . well, probably they think I'm powerful, thank you very much." Blamed for the break-up of a band "more popular than Jesus," Yoko Ono is that rare breed of maligned celebrity whose own name has become institutionalized as an insult. From Courtney Love, to Kate Moss, to Demi Lovato when she dated a Joe Bro, any woman who gets up close and personal with a guy in a band is at risk for the moniker. About Ono, feminist writer Germaine Greer once said, "Her enormous wealth can be no consolation for the knee jerk assumption she encounters a hundred times a day that she destroyed Lennon's gift and broke up the best band there ever was." Her name may have become an insult, but I doubt with her music, film making, and activism, Yoko Ono has ever let the insults define her. I agree with Greer that money is of no consolation to Ono. I think her art is.

I HATE THE INTERNET: THE REMIX REVIEW

Recently I wrote a review of Jarett Kobek's fantastic new book, I HATE THE INTERNET for Vol. 1 Brooklyn. Initially, the book inspired me to write something that focused much more on internet outrage, the wrath of which a main character in the book experiences. I ended up scaling back on that focus for the published review, and wrote about the book's other plotlines and themes instead. I think what the book initially inspired me to write is still valid, so I've decided to post it here. (The line of red stars denotes where the personal-style commentary on online outrage starts.) If you haven't read this book yet, you need to. If it isn't obvious from the opening, I'm a huge, huge fan of the book, and Jarett's writing in general.

JARETT KOBEK'S I HATE THE INTERNET (THE REMIX)

No writer’s work in the last year has inspired in me in so much post-reading activity as California author Jarett Kobek. His fictionalized, “psychedelic biography,” ATTA, the first of its kind to attempt to humanize 9/11 hijacker Mohamed Atta, led me to order the salacious biography, Walt Disney: Hollywood’s Dark Prince  that Kobek puts in the terrorist’s hands as he attempts to learn more about U.S infidel culture; his If You Don’t Read, Why Should I Write? led me to sit down with a cute reference librarian in search of English-language translations of Saddam Hussein’s execution (Kobek’s book features an excerpt, along with dialogue from celebrity sex tapes, juxtaposed with the celebrity’s arrest record); and his excellent novel, BTW, inspired me to binge watch the 1994 BBC production of Middlemarch, then read the CliffsNotes to the classic George Eliot book. (I craved a deeper understanding of Middlemarch in the moment, in relation to a recurring tangent in BTW. I hope to read Eliot’s 700+ page opus soon.) The writings of Jarett Kobek, though broad in their scope, all have one thing in common—the masterful tangent, the tangent risen to art form. Often, it was the tangents in Kobek’s work that were inspiring so much of my activity.

Because Kobek makes so many references to art, culture, language, and philosophy, in some ways, his writing reminds me of a Re/Search anthology from the 90s, but one with an underlining storyline that is rooted in the present day, and covers matters much more pressing to the moment.

Kobek’s writing does something else that deserves to be lauded, and is on display in his eviscerating new novel, I HATE THE INTERNET  (We Heard You Like Books): he breaks down the disconnect inherent to our outrage-impulsive age. The way he does this makes me think of the weekend after Sept. 11th, when Lorne Michaels famously asked Rudy Giuliani on Saturday Night Live if it was OK to be funny again. Thankfully, Kobek doesn’t ask anyone’s permission.

Kobek takes the saga of the internet—the people displaced from their homes to make room for it, the user on user crime that is so multi-faced and endemic, and the vengeance-loving masses waiting for the next e-wrong to right —and gently, considering the heady ground he’s covering, makes the sordid tale very funny.

It’s a brave thing to do, considering how emphatic some internet users can be in their belief that there is no grey area.  I HATE THE INTERNET asks, “Why is activism in the 21^st century nothing more than morality lectures typed into devices built by slaves?” Kobek also gives the time in which we live a new name: “terrofucked."

***

One of the primary plotlines of I HATE THE INTERNET involves a successful comic book illustrator, a woman in her 40s, named Adeline. Adeline finds herself in the middle of online controversy after giving a talk to the students of poet Kevin Killian (Kobek often weaves real people into his storylines, and real storylines onto his people). During the talk, Adeline is asked by a student if she thinks Facebook and Twitter can serve a role in the pursuit of social progress. It’s her response to the question that causes her so much trouble:

“Social progress might have had meaning twenty years ago when I was but a young thing, but these days it's become the product of corporations. But what do you people know anyway? You’re a lost generation. Even your drugs are corporate. You spend your lives pretending as if Beyoncé and Rihanna possess some inherent meaning and act as if their every professional success which only occur because of your money and your attention is a strike forward for women everywhere."

What she says is videotaped by a student, and uploaded to the internet. The internet in turn metes out its most finely tuned form of social progress.

As Kobek writes:

“A wide range of humanity believed that Beyoncé and Rihanna were inspirations rather than vultures. Adeline had spit on their gods.

This wide range of humanity responded by teaching Adeline about one of America’s favored pastimes, a tradition as time-honored as police brutality, baseball, race riots and genocide.

They were teaching Adeline about how powerless people demonstrated their supplication before their masters.

They were tweeting about Adeline.”

***

What Kobek highlights in I HATE THE INTERNET is what is so often lost, or conveniently overlooked, in our present day, need- for- high- speed internet rage:

The internet and it’s platforms are often the products of the baddest of bad guys. Twitter and Google, the platforms that Kobek focuses on most heavily because of their effects on the inhabitants of San Francisco, the novel’s setting— were built by displacing poor and middle income people from their homes in order to move tech execs in. They are platforms that profit from upset, and thrive on human suffering. They in turn market that human suffering, using it to sell products for corporations  who enable other forms of human suffering across the globe. Twitter, Google, and their ilk profiteer off the suffering so endemic to our times— where police officers are routinely acquitted of killing unarmed Black men, and wars are fought based on lies—as well as the much less significant human trespasses, like a 40 year old female comic book illustrator calling Beyoncé and Rihanna frauds.

It’s a tough thing to think about when meting out our responses online: who are our strong emotions most benefiting? Who are they most hurting? And who are the ones most deserving of our anger? Using whose corrupt tools are we fighting for social change? And what does that say about us, knowing that these tools are corrupt, that we continue to use them? Considering their vested interests—would these platforms really want the social change that we think we are using them for?

******************************

 While reading I HATE THE INTERNET, I found myself thinking about the people I know in online publishing circles, myself included, who have sometimes found themselves hesitant when publishing their stories, especially if those stories touch in some way on matters related to gender, class, sexuality, or race. Well if you’ve nothing to hide, then what would you have to be hesitant about? a voice—the ghost of internalized internet dramas past— asks. Well, it’s not always so cut and dry, a voice sounding like my own replies.  There are grey areas to things, there are the experiences that exist on the peripherals of our being—there are the tangents: things we’ve seen, places we’ve been, people we’ve known, people we’ve  sometimes been ourselves. In online publishing today, if you are writing anything touching on those subjects, you might feel like it would be beneficial to you to mark your side —establish your stance. Qualify. And experiences don’t happen that way, if you are to write about them honestly. Our lives happen in experiences. When experiences are fine-tuned to fit agenda they become politics.

***

If we were to get very kindergarten about it, inherent to the most common occasions of internet upset is the idea that the person at its center has done something offensive, and that offensive thing in turn reveals something about the offender’s moral center —their inner core as a person. Things in this way easily become very black and white. Once one has incited internet upset, that person has become marked, branded: they are bad.  I've never seen a person's reputation completely recover from this. (And would concur that some people have done things so egregious, a tainted reputation is far less than they deserve.) The implication to this might be if one wants to avoid finding themselves in the center of internet upset, if one wants to try to remain "good,” one should try to stay attuned to what constitutes offense—but keeping track can be difficult, because the definition is always in flux. A recent example of this would be the death of music icon David Bowie. By mourning David Bowie online, the week of his death, Jan 10, 2016, a person could find themselves unexpectedly considered "bad,” a person could find themselves unexpectedly considered horrible: a person could find themselves considered by some to be a rape sympathizer.

On Jan 10, I posted this on Facebook in response to Bowie's passing:

 There are some people you don't think of as being mortal. David Bowie made the world a much more interesting place.

Soon afterward, I started seeing posts conflating people's grief with rape sympathy, because of a sexual encounter Bowie had had with an underage fan in the 1970s. As I read the posts and comments, more posts began to appear. Some posts posited it was OK to mourn David Bowie as long as one also acknowledged their support for victims, their disdain for perpetrators of sexual assault.

I had a strong reaction to this. In order to avoid causing offense, I had to qualify my post about David Bowie’s death to explicitly state that I was against sexual assault?

If I had amended my post to reflect this—immediately after reading the other posts— it might have looked something like this:

 That my feelings of sadness at David Bowie’s death might be somehow misconstrued as an endorsement of sexual assault… Frankly, I’m offended by your offense.

I didn't amend my post, though I did put up a new post saying that I found the conflation to be madness. While I stand by that, I wish now that I hadn't responded at all.

Later, I found myself wondering: noting my interest in the posts that had made the conflation, had Facebook tailored my feed to specifically highlight the posts that had made that claim? The more posts I read reflecting that view, the stronger my need to react felt.  

Noting my interest, had Facebook tried to inflame me?

Reading the posts had kept me from logging out. They had led me to post again, and to comment, which I hadn’t planned to do. And there were things related to the posts that Facebook could try to sell me. As I stayed online reading and clicking, these books popped up as ads on my computer screen:

http://www.amazon.com/Groupies-Other-Electric-Ladies-Photographs/dp/1851497943/ref=sr_1_2?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1455469145&sr=1-2

and

http://www.amazon.com/Hammer-Gods-Stephen-Davis/dp/0425182134

***

While reading I HATE THE INTERNET, I also found myself reflecting on other incidents of big internet response. When websites use elements of sensationalism and scandal-mongering in their stories, it’s called clickbait: the sites are purposely focusing on the more provocative aspects of a story in order to up web traffic; often, at the expense of the story’s accuracy. A semi-recent, yet unique example of this would be when the online site Jezebel published the unretouched photos from a photoshoot Lena Dunham had done for Vogue magazine. What was unique about the situation was that Jezebel was called out by their readership for the reason they claimed to have run the photos: Jezebel claimed they published them to expose Vogue for body-shaming Dunham. Their readers said they didn’t believe Jezebel’s motives were nearly so righteous.

If we acknowledge that websites do this, manufacture upset in the hopes of garnering reaction, can we not acknowledge that individual people might exaggerate their upset online, too? When our supposed altruism and goodwill towards others becomes “shareable,” “likeable,” commendable in the moment, a commodity that can be used to increase online Klout scores, might the integrity of that altruism find itself in danger? Might we invent occasions by which to show off our supposed altruism—might our good deeds become performative? And what if those good deeds were best showcased when juxtaposed against the supposed misdeeds of others? Might we go out of our way to look for, and create villians?

Dunham, took to Twitter (of course), to share her thoughts about Jezebel running the unedited photos: “It’s way cooler when people do things out of pure blind spite than phony altruism,” she wrote.

***

So what post-reading activity did Jarett Kobek’s  I HATE THE INTERNET inspire in me? I’m proud to say I deleted the Facebook app on my phone. I still have an account, and can access the site from my browser, but it’s baby steps—my goal is to get down to a maximum of an hour and a half of online time a day. In the weeks before reading the book, I’d been considering setting up an account on Twitter: I thought I liked the idea of downsizing my thoughts to 140 characters or less. Ultimately, I decided against it. I deleted my secret Instagram account, too.

Because the truth of the matter is, I really hate the internet.

And if you stop to think about it, after reading Kobek’s great new book, you’ll probably realize you really hate the internet, too.

I’d like my actions to reflect that.

For now, real social progress for me happens in baby steps.

Just Kids

In early 2014, underground writer Gene Gregorits asked friends and enemies alike to send him old emails and correspondence they’d had with him for his new book, Do You Love Me? The Gene Gregorits File. Since I hardly ever delete anything, I was able to piece together parts of an old email exchange of ours that took place over a few months in 2003. He never used it for the book. I think he thought it was boring and not useful enough to the wild man persona he was cultivating at the time. I’ve decided to post it here—just the fact that it’s 13 years old makes it interesting to me. We were both in our twenties, and I don’t care what the law says. To rip off Patti Smith, I think that makes us just kids. There are two essays about Gene, who is now in jail in Florida, in my new book My Body Would be the Kindest of Strangers.

Just Kids

----------- Original Message -----------
From: ******
Sent To: *******
Subject: Re: Hello again...now honestly, does this suck?
Date Sent: 19 Mar 2003 03:19 PM

i don't know if you will get my first email. when i tried to send it, there was a problem, but it seemed like it went through. in case it didn't, my other email address is not working, because it is lame. my sister told me she talked to you. you can write back at this address. oh ya, and how are you? i’m crappy happy. bored and happy, but still crappy, maybe comparable to a pig in shit? i would appreciate knowing if you think this sucks:

He looked like Jim Morrison birthed by way of Nick Cave. He wore ties and rat pack hats. When he talked, I rarely understood where the conversation was heading, or what the inspiration was, though I knew it was intelligent and was transfixed anyway.

I'd go see him at his work or at the record store his band’s manager ran. He was nervous around girls, that was obvious. He kept a transvestite on the side, a hot transvestite, who he constantly dismissed by saying she was obsessed with him, if he broke up with her, she'd kill herself, she was just his meal ticket, they didn't fuck, he wasn't "A FAG." He liked to harp on this. HE WAS NOT "A FAG." I think he said he threw up on her once.

A lot of his friends were weary of me, though not to my face. They were right to be. I was on drugs. He was always saying he wanted drugs and made illusions to a drug problem in the past. I remember once I handed him a bag of dope over the counter at his work and he stared at it in shock. I think he wanted to throw it out. He might have later. I remember thinking I should have asked for it back. I remember giving him pills. I’ve always bonded with guys over drugs. He had too much ambition, I guess. My charms weren't really working. He’ll make a great rock star. Sex and drugs don't distract him. He thinks he wants them, but he’s really scared of them.

We kissed once. That was another problem, we were never alone, or we were always hiding from the transvestite. I hadn't "just kissed" anyone since high school. We went into the back of the place where he worked and he leaned over and kissed me. We broke away. I leaned back in for another kiss, to keep the mojo risin' and he suddenly looked very scared and screeched, “WHAT DO YOU THINK WE’RE GOING TO HAVE SEX BACK HERE? WE CANNOT HAVE SEX BACK HERE!"

Subject: Re: Hello again...Now honestly, does this suck?
Date Sent: 19 Mar 2003 03:50 PM

That DOES suck. I am certainly a pig in shit at the moment. Happy crappy. Happy crappy, busy and worried about $$$. What have you been up to? My book just came out....I am left strangely...indifferent. Send a recent pic of you. Very strange about bumping into your sister like that. Small world indeed. Liked your poem and story, send more! I've been obsessed with Shane MacGowan too. Very much into "The Snake,” with the Popes. Anyway, I have a new book out and am struggling to make rent, the usual, etc. Trying to avoid those naughty chemicals, reading a lot these days. Living on the outskirts of a small pappy town. I met a few interesting people here, one of them is a Hollywood refugee who used to drink with Bukowski. Very strange running into him. Going back to NYC anytime soon?

Friday, March 21, 2003 3:26 PM

the popes album is incredible. i love the snake with eyes of garnet and the donnegal express—“ka-ha-yah! you fuck! come hell or high water, i may have fucked your missus, but i never fucked your daughter!” i've been back and forth to new york three times in the past month. i'm sort of procrastinating when it comes to moving back. i can live with my sister in queens any time but here i have the creature comforts, i.e my mom buys my cigarettes. the environment is also the calmest i've been in in about a decade. well, with some qualifications. are you ever coming back to new york? nick hates me now, but that’s okay. i'll send you some pictures to prove i'm not beastly. what did you think of the poem i sent?

Saturday, March 22, 2003 4:30 PM

Nick and I have not spoken in 6 years. Your poem was really good, I thought I already said so. Can you send some more stuff for me to read? Indeed, SNAKE WITH EYES and DONNEGAL EXPRESS are both classics. My favorite is "Haunted.” Yeah, send pics. I have a bunch of me, too, to prove I am not (too) beastly.

Sunday, March 23, 2003 4:45 PM

actually, i wrote a short story the other day about a jack kerouac poster coming alive and saving a girl from  rape. i'll send you that.

Sunday, March 23, 2003 5:40 PM

Great story! Are you still doing video work?

Sunday, March 23, 2003 5:55PM

you liked it? all of my “critics” here sort of have a bias in my direction, or read very little, so i can never tell if their sentiments are genuine. i've written a few things but haven't filmed anything. i don't have a video camera. how was your weekend? we should telephone talk.

Monday, March 24, 2003 6:30PM

My weekend was depressing but turbulent, at least I stayed out of jail. That's something. Call me!

Tuesday, March 25, 2003 7:00PM

it was good to talk to you. inspiring. i'll call you again tonight. what time do you get up anyway? i wrote this morning. i think it’s kind of clever.

Have you ever noticed that almost any item of beautification-- be it drug (the world beautified), or cosmetic (your face and/or body beautified)-- can be turned into a militaristic implement with relative ease?

dye---happens in the trenches all the time, falls from the sky.

heroin(e)---your female savior, in battlefield death visions, most likely your mom.

lipstick---shaped like canisters, maybe the UN should check it out.

mascara wands look like rifle cleaners.

hot chicks are “the bomb.”

“xanax” sounds like “annex.”

eyeshadow is camouflage.

cover up--- hide those atrocities!

alcohol can clean wounds, make a solider more vulnerable, and an ice princess more likely to spread her legs.

“shock and awe”---a color scheme worthy of Revlon.

baubles and beads, how bout bombs and lead? perfumed poison gas, and necklaces of shrunken heads.

“methadone” comes from “dolophine” and “doloph” comes from “adolph” and that’s all swell and hitler.

"armistice," well that means to "make-up."

Tuesday, March 26 2003

 I like it....can i use it on the website?

Tuesday, March 26, 2003

yes, totally, put it up.

Tuesday March 26, 2003
What time should I call you? I got really busy with video stuff and didn't have time to gather info for our Interview Rampage...will start examining tonight

Wednesday, March 27, 2003

i just ruined a perfectly good bottle of jack daniels by pouring too much diet coke into it. i will call you later, maybe in like 5 minutes? i tried--it’s busy. i am going out for dinner w/ my psychotic penis appendage person (french fries, i'm sure). i deserve better, but always settle for less. the jack daniels is not so bad. i might consider becoming an alcoholic housewife, if i had a house. i will try to call you again. if it’s busy, i’ll call you tomorrow.

Sunday, March 30, 2003

Sorry I haven't written! We still gotta do this thing....but it may have to be delayed a while...I am falling behind in bills miserably and need a few weeks to re-stabilize financially. I'm out of long distance, can call you on Tuesday. How's everything in CT?

Sunday, March 30, 2003

keep in touch when you can.

Tuesday, April 1, 2003

oh my god, your book is great! thank you for sending it. some of the interviews are so funny. john waters and his comments about pedophiles and plo camps for fat chicks. your comments in the ron athey interviews had me dying. “IT IS MY CURSE TO BEAR THE INTIALS G.G" and "BRITNEY HAS HAD MORE PRICKS THEN A HEDGEHOG." ha ha, it’s so good. i did feel a little desire to shake lydia a bit. her rhetoric is getting a little old and seems somewhat rehearsed. the book is great though. the picture of you in the ad with the bandage on your head---that’s an ode to lenny bruce, right?

Tuesday, April 1, 2003

Why don't you get a train down here and hang out with me for a few days? I really can't afford to come to NYC, but I'm only a few hours away, if you want to skip CT for a bit.

Tuesday, April 1, 2003

that would be great and sounds like fun though i don't know how likely it would be anytime soon being that i've decided to move back to new york. honestly, i am sort of scared out of mind to go back but i'm not doing anything here. you’re only a few hours away? you’re still going to be NYC for the book party, right???

4/3/2003 8:36:12 PM Eastern

Hell yeah! The book party is at 8 PM on the 27th. Didn't mean to fuck off all of a sudden, a lot of shit just fell into my lap and I'm swamped as hell. I still wanna do this interview thing. Will you be around today if I call?

Thursday, April 3, 2003

i've been really distracted too.  i'm moving this weekend. i definitely wanna see you when you come down for the book party or before, so let me know. i'm going to be staying in queens, living like an immigrant in a sardine apartment.

Thursday, April 3, 2003

I'll let you know exactly what days I'll be in NY. If you're going to be around, I'll try to come a day early so we can do an interview. I'll e-mail Richard Hell and we can interview him together.

Thursday, April 3, 2003

do you think will lydia hate me?????

Thursday, April 3, 2003

She'll be at CBs that night and I'll be introducing the two of you.

Thursday, April 10, 2003

could you email me your phone number again? i can't find it. being back in new york is cool and queens is surprisingly cool. i always dismissed it. i should be punished. can't wait to see you. here’s the phone number here:

 Monday, April 14, 2003

Looks like I'll be up there this week. Really excited to see you too. Yeah I'd love to talk to Ty Stixx...especially for the Sid and Nancy stories. More later.

Tuesday, April 15, 2003

you'll be here this week?

 Wednesday, April 16, 2003

I was considering coming today, but most likely I'll be getting in tomorrow. Do you have plans?

Wednesday, April 16, 2003

tonight we are going to ct for easter and will be back sunday afternoon. then on monday night for a few hours (til 7) i have to bartend train at this really crappy joint that it looks like i'll be working at. besides that no. should i beat up your girlfriend?

 Sunday, April 20, 2003

 I don't really have a girlfriend, but we have been seeing a lot of each other. Anyway, will you be around tonight? I'll give you a ring. When should I call you?

Sunday, April 27, 2003

hey-- i don't know how this instant messenger thing works, but i've been using my brother in law's handle thingy to communicate with my sister while she is at work. his name on it is ******. i'm going to get my own, but why don't you try using his to communicate with me? he never uses it, but just in case, just make sure it’s me who's on. i called you earlier but you didn’t answer. love and other indoor sports.

 Thursday, May 8, 2003

 Hey. Tried calling yesterday. I've been nearly comatose these past few weeks, drinking like a fish...that's why I haven't been in touch. Lemme know what you're doing next weekend, and if you want to hang out. I had fun with you at the book party. I'm trying to save some cash to get up there for a few days, this bullshit town is driving me out of my mind.

Friday, May 9, 2003

i went to see gram norton last night and didn't get home til late. when i got up to use the bathroom he called out to me from the stage “look at her sashaying like a model! she has to pee!” and the whole audience turned around and looked at me. i'm going to be in ct til tuesday, i have to get dental work done and i still have poor persons insurance there. we should try to hang out. i'll be back in nyc tuesday night.

Friday, May 9, 2003

I'll try you later this afternoon...sorry I haven't called. Been on a sleep binge, depressed to the point of rigor mortis...sure you've been there. Miss you.

Saturday, May 10, 2003

i saw joey zero yesterday- he said he’s emailed you a bunch of times but you don't respond.

 In a message dated 5/17/2003 2:24:28 PM Eastern Daylight Time

it would be very cool to see you as soon as possible. what was i doing in the dream you had? graphic things or g-rated.

 Saturday, May 17, 2003

Oh yeah, the dream was graphic but highly tasteful I can assure you.

Saturday, May 17, 2003

i think i'm going to call you in a second.

Tuesday, May 20, 2003

 Hey. Doing slightly okay with money so I should be in NYC the first week of June as planned. We should get slightly tipsy at the Sidewalk Cafe, and walk around making fun of people. I don't know, maybe get high. You had GREAT hair in my dream. I'm sorry. Joey's great. Anyway...I really AM going to be in NYC the first week of June. Miss you....pissed me off we couldn't hang out more at the book party, and etc. There's something about you....I don't know, you really cheer me up.

 Thursday, May 22, 2003 9:05 PM

i look forward to getting to know you better too. like i've said, when i first met you, i was attracted to you. i feel like we’ve had some weird mutual experiences, like we've both been kind of warped by people we looked up to. i liked kissing you. think we will fuck?

 Sunday, June 8, 2003

 hey, my sister just told me you called. i'm at work. bartending didn’t work out, so i'm doing phone sex. i need a job that provides me with money everyday. i have to work tomorrow night too. how long are you going to be in town for? sorry i didn't call you back. i've been running around all over the place like a maniac. i will be home tomorrow morning if you want to call again.

Sunday, June 8, 2003

 Hey. Do you still wanna try to make plans for when I'm in town? If you're busy, I understand....just let me know one way or the other. As long as I hear back from AWK between now and midnight, I'll be on a train to NY tomorrow. Any chance I'd be able to crash at your place? I'll buy you dinner. Hope you're well

 Monday, June 9, 2003

we could hang out thursday morning or friday. i don't know yet if i have to work thursday night, i'm here til 4am. i’ll be here tomorrow night too.

Monday, June 9, 2003

 Wow, I didn't know you did phone sex. I'll be in town tomorrow no later than 5PM. Leaving Friday morning at the very latest. Any possibility of crashing at your place? Try to let me know tonight....I know how these things work, plans fall apart etc, but I really wanna see you, so let's try to work something out. Don't you get a break or something tonight? I'll call you if so. Give me the number.. Phone sex...hmmm...sounds tasty. You should come along with me for my AWK interview. Interested?

 Monday, June 9, 2003

when and where? does he have publicists and stuff or are you guys going to be one on one? i don’t know much about him but he seems interesting. i will see if I can get out of work tomorrow. i don't know if i can though. i’m new here, and the manager is tough and no nonsense. are you interviewing him tomorrow?

Monday, June 9, 2003

I won't know when and where until tomorrow. What is of EXTREME IMPORTANCE is that I know you will be free and off work tomorrow so we can drink, goof off, have fun, and do nasty things to each other. Let me know what time I should call you tomorrow morning so we can arrange our debaucherous festivities. There will be no publicist, it will be me and AWK solo, with YOU, if you are able to attend this meeting. I will give you co-credit in the article and it will be well worth your time. I just talked to an agent. This piece may well be published in SPIN. Get back to me! We can't fuck this up!

 Monday, June 9, 2003

i hit the reply too soon. the timing really sucks. i just got this job and i have no money. let me talk to my boss. i am more than a little stressed.

 Wednesday, June 11, 2003 2:10 AM

 i don’t want to talk to horny lonely people anymore. all the woman that i work with say they’ve put on at least 10lbs while working here. are you in town yet? i am exhausted. i want to go home.

Wednesday, June 11, 2003

Send me a NUMBER so I can call, and do it now. I will be in NYC tomorrow by 3 PM and we need to get together, no? We'll work it out on the phone...but please get back to me within a few minutes, I need to sleep so I am up in time for my train. I am sorry about the stress, I know it must suck. I'll buy you drinks and we'll get away from all the bullshit for a while.

 Wednesday, June 11, 2003

call me tomorrow morning.

 Friday, June 13, 2003 11:55 PM

 What makes people disgusting and worthless is the fact that they are not honest, and honestly speaking, would you mind explaining why you have been avoiding me? It's not that I really care, but at the same time...when a girl openly invites me to have sex with her, and makes references to our alleged similarities, I have to be curious when she decides to blow me off.

 Sunday, June 15, 2003 2:12 AM

 Just got back...it really sucks I couldn't see you. I know you're stressed, hang in there. Phone sex must be a real fuckin drag. I was really drunk that night we were e-mailing each other back and forth. Hope I didn't piss you off...I think I was kinda rude. Interview with AWK went well, got a few pictures. It was very exciting. Unfortunately, my excessive drinking this past week left me terribly ill for the duration of my trip. And yeah, I was bummed out we couldn't at least get a drink or something. I left mean spirited and ominous graffiti in the Mars Bar toilet and sweated a lot. My friend John videotaped me acting like a belligerant swine, but it's kinda funny. Needless to say, I had to destroy the tape.  Hope you're doing better...let me know if you wanna plan something again, I want to come back to town again next month. I gotta get out of this hideous town, for good...take care

 Sunday, June 15, 2003

i’m not avoiding you. i have a lot going on right now, that’s all. i tried to explain that to you before you left. it hardly makes me disgusting or worthless to have things i have to deal with. it makes me fucking human.

Sunday, June 15, 2003

 I didn't call you disgusting. You're actually very pretty and besides, I was drunk. My apologies. Regardless, I was there for two whole days. If you'd wanted to get together, it could have been worked out. I just wish people would be straight with me

 Sunday, June 15, 2003

 being drunk is no excuse. you’re acting like a baby. i owe you nothing. i wanted to hang out with you, but i'm sorry i just can't drop everything when you end up rolling into town.

 Sunday, June 15, 2003

 Sorry. I don't expect you to drop everything. It should have been better planned or something. it's just that my circumstances out here are so fucked. I'm stranded in the middle of nowhere....I haven't seen anyone except for redneck strangers and bartenders since that CBGBs party. It's making me stir crazy, desperate to see a familiar face. Anybody in my position would start to fuckin lose it.  That's got nothing to do with you though and I'm sure you'd rather not hear about it. Anyway, best of luck, hope things straighten out for you.

Monday, June 16, 2003

Again, I want to apologize for being such a dick. You're right, you don't owe me anything...I'm sorry for giving you the impression that i thought you did. I'm just a lonely bastard, staring at the walls waiting for something to happen all year has made me a bit infantile, and I ought not to drink so damn much. I really do like you though, still looking forward to seeing you again sometime. Maybe next time then. Hope you're doing good.

 Saturday, June 21, 2003

 i don't know if you know, but nick bohn died yesterday. there is a memorial next week.

 Sunday, June 22, 2003

 Okay, you're not replying. Guess you're mad at me. That's okay, but I was curious how Nick Bohn died...can't believe I didn't ask you in the first e-mail. I just assumed it was drugs.

Monday, June 23, 2003

 i'm not mad. i never got the other email. you’re right though, he overdosed. he'd been clean for a while though. so sad.

 Thursday June 26, 2003

 Dear friends,

 I am moving to Detroit on Monday and will be cancelling this e-mail account in 24 hours. My new e-address is: *****@****** Hope everyone's well.

 Friday, June 27, 2003

 what’s in detroit? so no new york? good luck.

Wednesday, July 2, 2003

 Hi. I wanted to come to NYC but you never got back to me! Remember I asked you about your schedule? I was looking forward to seeing you. There aren't any friendly or familiar faces around here, except for my family, which is why I have to move. Detroit is cheap and nasty and full of crazies, so at least I won't be broke and bored. They have some great clubs and a ton of even greater bars. I'll be getting some warehouse work within a few weeks and moving into my own apt. in the downtown area.  How are you doing? What's been going down with you in NYC? Maybe we can have a chat on the phone before I leave. Lemme know if you wanna...I'll call you...

 Thursday, September 18, 2003 1:47 AM

 i don't think you sent the email. i never got it, the last email i got from you was about the shane pictures. things here are good, more or less, i'm working at barnes and noble and learning how to play the banjo. or more like making rock star faces in the mirror while holding the banjo. either way i'm trying to do things with a banjo. not writing as much as i'd like to be though, the quiet of ct was more conducive to that. what’s up with you?  as for getting together, do we really want to start that up again?

 

The Quickest Way to Attain Village Weirdo Status

The quickest way to attain village weirdo status in a small town is to walk everywhere. Try it out. As you’re transitioning, people will stop and ask you if you want a ride. Say "no" and tell them you like walking. Watch their eyes get wide, as if you’ve just said you like the burning feeling that comes from having chlamydia. The most random people will stop and offer, and saying “no” is often awkward. Once, an obese woman in a beat-up station wagon followed me down a main thoroughfare screaming, "Ralphie's mom!" "Ralphie's mom! "Ralphie's mom!" It turned out she’d been my son’s bus driver, at a preschool he'd attended, more than three years ago, although my son's first name isn't "Ralphie." If they go through the inconvenience of stopping, you will learn that they expect you to say “yes,” and get in the car.

In the early days of your identity switch, you will meet all the people who make Nancy Grace so popular: the 40+ crowd who sees only killers and rapists in the joggers, dog walkers, and stroll takers you share the sidewalks with. Some of them will tell you that they see what you’re doing as "inspirational," make a comment about your "tight buns," then stick a pastry in their mouths as they dismiss hoofing it as too assault-risky.

Once you’ve ascended to village weirdo status, you will be mentioned in the same breath as the woman who hangs out outside Stop ’n’ Shop, wears multiple, heavy coats in summer, and supposedly lost her children in a fire. You will become community property. People will comment on your clothes, your pace, and scold you out their car windows as they pass, "Don’t text and walk!" Some will find that they have developed a quiet affection for you.  On the days that they don't see you out there walking, they will wonder where you are, and how you are traveling. They will have come to count on seeing you as a regular thing. They will hope that you are ok. They will find that they miss you, even though they think you are weird.

Oona Poem

I wish I was an Oona
but I am a Fiona.
I would make a good 4th wife.
I could heat the milk just right.
I wish I was an Oona
but I am a Fiona.
I would make a good teen bride.
I know how to roll my eyes.
I wish I was an Oona
but I am a Fiona.
I'd give up all my lofty plans
just to be his unseen hands.
I wish I was an Oona
but I am a Fiona.

The Life Cycle of a Resentment

I’m not one to hold on to resentments. Thanks to Ebola, I've learned that my resentment cycle is similar to what the human body goes through when infected with a virus. I get actively angry for a few days (entry), storyboard elaborate revenge fantasies in my head involving the shaming and embarrassment of my resentee (replication/shredding), then let it all go, usually having done nothing (latency, "proliferation of the virus particles has ceased, however, the viral genome is not fully eradicated"). Probably the last real resentment I had was towards a friend’s wife, and while I’ve done things to her in my head, and to her image, via Photoshop, that I'm not proud of, I’m to that stage in my resentment cycle where she rents no space in my head, if I don’t go out of my way to think about her existing.

A few weeks ago I sent out a book review to a website. I’d originally sent it to another website, one that I read all the time, and have erotic fantasies about its editor- in- chief, but they messaged me back that they had commissioned a review of the same book to someone else, the week before. I didn’t really care either way about the website I send the review to next. I liked it well-enough, but really, I'd spent a bit of time on the review, and just wanted to see it up somewhere.

Let’s say the editor of the second website was named Jessa. Let's say that even though I got her name right in her email address, I didn’t get it right in the note I sent along with the review. Let's say I addressed my email message to Jessica not Jessa.

If you didn't know, my name is Fiona. My whole life people have gotten my name wrong. I've been called Frances. Something about a first name starting with the letter F that's not Frank or Fred throws people. I'd be an idiot if all these years into my life I still let it bother me. If the definition of "insanity" is doing the same thing over and over, and expecting different results, the sub- definition is still getting mad about something that you've had years to develop a thick skin about. (Obviously, this doesn't apply to violent assault, and the like.)

Five minutes after hitting send, an email appeared in my inbox. This was good, because usually if an editor replies fast, it means they like your work.

“Dear Fiona,” it began.

“Word of advice: if you don't want your writing to end up in an editor’s trash unread get their name right.”

No signature.

My first inclination was that she was right. Her response was very effective, because I was instantly in a state of deep mortification, and got on the phone to go and cry to a friend. But soon afterward, I started to get angry. From one often screwed up first named person to another, words (because more than one word is plural) of advice: Chill sister. Then it occurred to me, this person is making a lot of assumptions. This person doesn't know me. She doesn't know my circumstances. For all this person knows, I could have composed that email on shitty voice activated software after losing my arms in a fire. Maybe my hard of hearing home health care worker composed that email for me, absolving me of any responsibility and making me the improper beneficiary of her snooty words of advice. What did she know, maybe ableist.

So I composed this response:

Dear J,

Thank you so much for your timely response. F. who is lying here besides me, shivering in her bed sheets, yet somehow managing to look angelic, would want me to stress to you how grateful she is for this. Being that she is so vulnerable to infection, timely responses to her email inquiries, especially ones in regard to her writing, have taken on a great and dark importance. We are, after all, talking about her legacy. Death portends.

I have to make this fast. Because of the state war machine, budget cuts are again victimizing the most vulnerable among us, and my hours helping F. as her eyes, her ears, and-- I am woe to admit-- as her editor have been greatly reduced.

Your response shook me, J. If it can be any consolation to your delicate sensibilities, I want to come clean to you about something.

I see Jessicas.

That infamous Missouri outlaw shot down by a treacherous friend? Jessica James. That wrestler who held public office in Minnesota? Jessica Ventura. It's like tunnel vision. I can't explain it. Any name that begins with Je: Jessica Lopez. Jessica Aniston. I even hear names this way. Rick Springfield's song is an anthem of equality with gender neutral pronouns as he wishes he had Jessica's girl.

Do you remember that movie, with Bruce Willis, and that darling, cone headed boy, Haley Joel Osment? The name of the film escapes me, but there was that famous line of dialogue from the film that was everywhere for a moment: "I see dead people."

I see Jessicas.

I thought I had it under control; I reinvented myself as one of the people who refer to others by their last names. People assumed I was a gym teacher.

Do what you must J. Empty the email from the trash. Rid yourself of it for good; but please, do not hold my affliction against the poor, wounded girl who lies besides me.

I have told her and will tell her nothing of this exchange.

Love and other indoor sports,

X

***

It’s a few weeks later, and while I've yet to hear a response, I’m happy to report I am 100% resentment-free.

On being lumpen sexy

The lumpen proletariat and lumpen bourgeoisie exist outside the mainstream class system; they are the criminal element who make their capital gains outside of the law, but they exist there for different reasons.  The lumpen proletariat is forced there, because of a lack of options, while the lumpen bourgeoisie embraces criminal enterprise because there is no oversight, therefore, more profits to be made. The lumpen proletariat might be a drug dealer, a person who grew up poor, without access to education, while the lumpen bourgeoisie might be a Al Capone- style mafia don.

I am lumpen sexy predicated on a similar idea: if we think of desirability as a coveted capital, my earning potential has always been, and continues to be, significantly diminished. At 38 years of age, I'm no longer youthful, nor was I ever considered to be classically pretty. Still, I manage to continue to accumulate capital from the fringes by staying in shape through restrictive diet and exercise, doing my make- up in a way best suited to my features, and familiarizing myself with lighting tricks, and flattering angles, when taking sexy selfies.

Living Through This: Twenty Years in Love with Courtney Love

 I can’t say this about many things in this world, but I can say with a degree of certainty that I remember the exact moment when I became aware of Courtney Love’s existence: I was at my friend Chelsea’s house.

Chelsea was a year younger than me, and her parents had allowed her to drop out of high school to take correspondence classes. My friends and I would skip class to go hang out at her family's cavernous house, where her parents were never home, and the refrigerator was always stocked with expensive organic foods. Chelsea would spend the school day there, all alone, dying her hair with different colors of Manic Panic, and sometimes doing her schoolwork, always with the TV set to MTV in the background. My friends and I had a snobbish air about the music we listened to. We subscribed to the adolescent idea of "the sell-out," a concept often espoused by those who don't know much about the real struggles of the world. We thought of ourselves as 16 and 17 year old punk rock purists, who listened to only the real deal, punk bands from Washington, D.C, or the Bay Area of California, bands that we told ourselves would never affiliate with major labels or “go mainstream” in order to promote their music. Chelsea was the only one in our group of friends who had no time for such posturing. She liked what she liked when she liked it, and this included bands like Soundgarden, Pearl Jam, and Nirvana--all getting heavy rotation on MTV at the time. One day, my boyfriend Thomas and I left school early to hang out with Chelsea at her house. Her dog started to bark as we came through the door.

    “Shut up!” Chelsea yelled in our direction. Her eyes were glued to the TV screen.

   “Today, Nirvana frontman Kurt Cobain married Hole singer Courtney Love in Hawaii,” announced MTV VJ Kurt Loder on the screen, followed by a montage of Kurt and Courtney, and then snippets of Courtney playing with her band Hole.

 With her ripped dress, bleached blonde hair, and candy-apple red lipstick, Courtney looked like a 1920’s movie star who’d gotten dressed for a fancy event, then neglected to change her clothes or wash off her make-up for the rest of the week. Her look said something about beauty in ruin, but with a little girl innocence, conveyed by the Mary Jane’s on her feet and the pink plastic barrettes in her hair. A journalist would later refer to Courtney and Babes in Toyland singer Kat Bjelland’s war of accreditation for this look as "The War of the Schmatta," schmatta being the Yiddish word for rags. Just the quick visual of Courtney relayed so much; playing with tropes of sexuality and innocence, she looked like the Little Match Girl with a guitar. I thought she was one of the most glamorous looking women I’d ever seen. For all my screams of "sell-out" along with my friends, I’d always loved Hollywood, especially old Hollywood, and treasured the battered copy of Kenneth Anger’s Hollywood Babylon that I'd stolen from a used bookstore. Visually, Courtney was the physical hybrid of two worlds I worshiped at; one of them secretly, the other much more openly.

 “Fucking bitch!” Chelsea said, throwing the TV remote at the screen. Though Chris Cornell from Soundgarden was Chelsea’s primary Northwest corridor crush, she still had a soft spot for Kurt.

“Who fucking cares,” my boyfriend Thomas said. Thomas' parents had recently moved to New York, but his father had done well enough in his job at a large corporation to afford to keep a house in the area so Thomas would be able to finish out high school with his friends. “They’re fucking sell-outs."

   He took the remote from where it had fallen on the floor, and attempted to turn the TV off, but Chelsea yanked it back from his hands.

   "Don't you ever try to turn off the TV in my house," Chelsea said, holding the remote close to Thomas' head in a menacing pose. "Asshole."

   Thomas may have been my first real boyfriend, but Chelsea was my first real love.

***

   Because of our instant prejudice towards Kurt and Courtney, it would be a little while before I would hear the music of Hole. Nirvana was much more accessible. They seemed to be everywhere, but I purposely didn't pay much attention. Learning that Kurt and Courtney were fans of one of my favorite writers, William S. Burroughs, and that Kurt had even gone to Kansas to hang out with him, did nothing to change my opinion. So what if both Kurt and Courtney were making music with Pat Smear of the Germs, one of our favorite bands? We had started doing heroin, and it was pretty obvious that Kurt and Courtney also did heroin, but still we told ourselves we could not relate. Was it just the times? Coincidence? Were we influenced by what was going on in Seattle, or was the scene playing out there just a microcosm of what it meant to be a young person at the time?

   My mother forced me into rehab for the first time during my senior of high school. While I was there, Kurt left the rehab center he'd been forced into in California, went to the beautiful home he and Courtney had bought in Lake Washington, closed himself up in the greenhouse above the garage, and killed himself. I can remember Chelsea, in tears, telling me this over the rehab payphone, and being shocked for a moment, then circling back to the familiar attitude I espoused in all things Nirvana-related: cold, calculated dismissal. All the empathy I'd feel for Kurt in life, and in death, would come later. My lack of empathy and my cold response to the news of his death would come to rate high on my list of regrets related to the precocious cynicism I felt when I was young. It seems like it should be an oxymoron: how can someone be so young, yet already so world-weary? In 1998, Courtney wrote a song called Awful for the Hole album Celebrity Skin containing a lyric that, when I think back to this time in my life, I want to scream at myself:

Oh just shut up you're only sixteen.

   In the same payphone conversation with Chelsea, I remember changing the subject of Kurt's death to complain about the rehab staff taking away my Re/Search William S. Burroughs t-shirt.

 "Fucking assholes!" I said. "They're trying to rob me of my identity! They're trying to turn me into a clone!"

   I want to smack myself.

***

    A few days later, I was kicked out of rehab for refusing to leave my room. Subscribing to the same tough love philosophy that Courtney would later say she regretted using on Kurt during the final month of his life, my mother refused to let me come home, and I became homeless.

   My friend Jeff worked at Record Town, and was a prisoner behind the counter as my friends and I came into the store and pillaged it of everything that even vaguely held our auditory interests. We were greedy and non-discriminating. I had Ozzy Osbourne box sets, Woodstock anniversary commemorative CDs, piles and piles of tapes and CDs that I never opened, and never planned on opening. They would come in handy later, when I started selling my possessions for money for heroin. Homeless, I tried to spend as much time as possible with my friends, but there were many hours I had no choice but to spend alone. One day I went to Record Town by myself, spent a few cursory minutes talking with Jeff, and then went over to the new music display to see what I could take. Immediately I spotted Hole's new album, Live Through This. The album seemed cursed, released only a week after Kurt's death, and with that eerily prescient title. It was for there for the taking. With none of my friends there to judge me, I slipped it into my bag.

   Later that night, I went to a show in a far-off corner of Connecticut. The band was rather infamous in the area, and it was my first time seeing them play. I took an interest in their singer, Clem, a skinny, pale boy with a twitchy right eye. I thought his resemblance to Sid Vicious was uncanny. I approached him, and over the course of an awkward conversation, I mentioned to him that I was homeless.

    "Where do you sleep?" Clem asked, sounding intrigued.

    "I don't know," I answered. "Wherever."

   "Where are you sleeping tonight?"

   I told him that my friend and I had driven some distance for the show, and that after we returned, I'd probably sleep near her house on the beach.

   "I'll come with you," he offered.

   In my friend's truck, Clem was being flirtatious, and starting rummaging through my bag, exposing the Hole tape. I immediately became defensive, expecting the same dismissive attitude towards the band that I was so used to. "I don't know why I took it," I began, "I don’t even like them. I’ve never even heard them.” "You've never heard Hole?" Clem asked, either not noticing, or choosing not to call me out on the skewed logic of not liking a band that you’ve never heard. He handed the tape to my friend, who had a stereo in her truck. We listened to the tape on the drive back to town, where she dropped us off by the beach. I had heroin, and it turned out Clem was not at all comfortable with this. I'd completely misjudged him based on his appearance. Later that night, while I was nodding off, Clem attempted to run to the water and throw my bags of heroin in, but I came to and tackled him to the ground before he could. Clearly, Clem and I were not going to work out. But on the car ride, he'd introduced me to a Hole song that I couldn't get out of my head. It was called Rock Star. Courtney had put it on Live Through This as an afterthought. Rock Star wasn't even the real name of the song, but the track listing for the album had already been printed that way; it was what the song would become known as:

   "When I went to school, in Olympia, and everyone's the same. We look the same, we talk the same, we even fuck the same."

   Before Clem would go his way, and me mine, he would tell me about going to see Nirvana play in 1991, at a club in New Haven called The Moon. "It was one of the best shows I've ever been to," he said. "It made me want to start a band."

***

   Once Clem had opened my copy of Live Through This, I was exposed to the liner notes and the pictures inside.

   Courtney in a tiara, short white dress, little girl tights and a fuzzy coat, smoking a cigarette.

   When I'd left the rehab center after getting kicked out, I'd looked very much like this, minus the tiara. After seeing Courtney on television at Chelsea's house, I'd subtly adopted her look, though I would have denied that she was the inspiration for it at the time. When I left Conifer Park Rehabilitation Center, marketed as “a facility for the treatment of alcohol and drug dependency, located in the pines of Schenectady, New York," I was wearing a 60's style shift dress, fishnet stockings, and my own fuzzy winter coat. I was almost three hours away from home. My mother had purposely sent me somewhere far away, thinking my friends would not travel the distance to pick me up should I try to leave. The rehab staff forced me to vacate the premises immediately. All I had with me was the clothing on my back, and a small bag that functioned as my purse. I later learned that the staff had called my mother. Assuming that I would not be able to make it very far, they thought I would be forced to humble myself, and come back.

   As I walked in the direction of what I hoped was downtown Schenectady, it began to snow. It was April, but it felt like mid February, and I only had about two dollar's worth of change in my purse. I had no idea what I was going do. I thought my friend Renee would probably come and get me, but I had no way to communicate with her. Even if I could get to a payphone, I would have to call her collect, and she was at school. For now, all I could do was walk. Eventually I came to a small supermarket. There was a bench outside, and I sat down. Cold, hungry, and feeling completely hopeless, I began to cry. People came in and out of the store, eyeing me suspiciously. Back home, I'd gotten used to being called a "freak" because of my appearance; I'd even fed off of it a little bit, me and what I told myself was my preternatural uniqueness. But on a cold bench, in a strange town, under falling snow, my uniqueness didn't carry any currency at all. It was only detriment. A little old man with a cane approached the store with a woman. Instead of going inside, he whispered to her, then sat down on the bench next to me. The woman hadn't tried to dissuade him, despite the cold, the snow, or me on the other end of the bench.

   "What's the matter, young lady?" the man asked.

   I had never felt more utterly alone. I had come to the point of crying where my whole body was shaking with every breath. What could I possibly say to this little old man that wouldn't make him grab his cane and hobble away from me?

   "I'm far from home, and I can't get in touch with my friends," I stammered.

   He seemed to think about this.

   Feeling like I had nothing to lose, I took a chance, and told the man an amended version of the truth. I told him that I had left rehab, but changed the drug that had put me there from heroin to pot, thinking it would sound less severe. I made my mother out to be the villain of the story, portraying her as strict, unreasonable, and out of touch.

   "Well," the old man said. "It's too cold for you to stay out here in what you have on. Let's go talk to my wife. I think she'll agree, we should take you back to our house until we can figure things out for you."

   For all the things I didn't understand about the world, for all the things I dismissed, or viewed with a precocious sense of cynicism, I could see- even then-- the gesture of this little old man as a profound act of kindness; of caring. This little old man, who walked with a cane, so fragile and vulnerable, offering his home to this weird looking girl in overdone make- up and provocative clothing-- this girl who had just told him that she’d left rehab.

   As we walked the aisles of the supermarket looking for his wife, the man turned to me.

   "You like loud music, don't you?" he said. "I bet you were a fan of that young man who just died in Seattle. It's so sad, you kids today. Killing yourselves as a form of expression."

   I have to stop.

If I was an actor, and had to cry for a scene, all I would have to do is think of that little old man. It kills me every time.

***

   In a 1995 Spin magazine interview, Courtney Love said, "I may lie a lot, but never in my lyrics."

 It was the visual of Courtney Love that attracted me to her at first, then it was the sound of her band, Hole, (a sound that Billy Corgan once described as "someone screaming their head off, but in a very intelligent way") but what has kept me a fan of hers for the last twenty years is her lyrics. Her poetry. Some of the more famous lyrics from Live Through This have become so familiar, have been so oft- repeated, that to list them here almost feels redundant:

   I don't really miss God, but I sure miss Santa Claus

   I don’t do the dishes. I throw them in the crib

   I'm Miss World, somebody kill me

   I want to be the girl with the most cake

  Was she asking for it? Was she asking nice? If she was asking for it, did she ask you twice?

   ...but that's the fate of great poetry. Everybody owns it. It gets repeated ad infinitum, scrawled on backpacks, scribbled on the sides of buildings, recycled in ad campaigns, tattooed on body parts--why? Because it resonates. The lexicon of Courtney’s poetry is made up of girls (pee girl, retard girl, gutter girl, girl with the most cake), drugs, death, rebirth, boys, feminism, prostitution, California, dresses, (both ripped, and on fire) Anne Boleyn, Hester Prynne, Yoko Ono, the internet, self-loathing, suicide, glamour, and children. It isn't surprising that Courtney chose to read from Sylvia Plath's Daddy in her tryout for a 1970's version of the Mickey Mouse Club. There's a lineage.

   Courtney's lyrical composition is jarring. Despite Hole's embrace by mainstream audiences in the mid 1990's, Courtney's writing speaks of a very specific female perspective and experience. It's one that has never been represented in depth in mainstream music. The drugged and despairing, exploited yet optimistic, super-sexual, whip-smart, body dysmorphic feminist. The voice in her lyrics is fucked beyond what we’ve been taught should ever be redeemable. The perspective is contradictory, and inconsistent. It is messy. It says, in spite of my ambition, I won't clean myself up. It says, literally, don’t you try to shut me up; in spite of my mess, you will not dismiss me.

   There are other lyrics of Courtney's, both pre and post Live Through This, that aren't as well known, but carry the same kind of weight, and power:

   There is no power like my pretty power/There is no power like my ugly power

   An eightball isn't love/A hooker's never gonna cum

  They royalty rate all the girls like you/ And they sell it out to the girls like you

 Watch her wrap her legs around this world/ You can't take the gutter from the girl

 All my loves in vain/ Can't find a vein

She spent twenty years in the Dakota/She spent twenty years like a virus/ They want to burn the witches inside us

I don't believe in anything/ I know that Mary lied

   Does widespread, mainstream appeal detract from the emotional resonance of the sentiment conveyed?

   I think of the closing line of one of the most famous poems in the world, Sylvia Plath's Lady Lazarus:

   Out of the ash/I rise with my red hair/And I eat men like air. 

   The answer is no. What is it, then, that makes us back off once something passes through the pearly gates and gets embraced by mainstream society?

   It's that desire to think of ourselves as unique, to rebel against that which is actually comforting: the idea of the universal experience. It has nothing to do with the validity of the music, or the poetry, or the sentiment conveyed.  It's our want to think that we’re the only one. That we are somehow... special. It's snobbery, and it's cynicism.

***

   Whatever Courtney has experienced through the years, whatever she has really lived through, free from what we might think we know about her, free from any inside source exclusive reported on television or in the tabloids, I can see my life in her lyrics. We have had the same experiences. We have both lived our lives in the same almost constant state of contradiction. Hooker waitress model actress oh just go nameless. The lyrics of Courtney Love are my cultural zeitgeist. I read her lyrics-- her poetry-- and I can see the story of my life.

***

 I have never met Courtney, nor do I want to. I've come close; with the advent of the internet, and her affection for the medium, I've talked with her a bit online. She gave me advice on how to get off Xanax once; another time, she messaged me to say that she was taking one of my Facebook statuses about how thunderstorms made me horny and texting it to a male friend. I don't want to meet Courtney, because really, in my mind anyway, she exists free of herself. She is a person of flesh and blood, yes-- but she is also an idea. When I finally stopped hiding the fact that she intrigued me, and started reading more about her and her life, I became fixated on something. Something probably totally insignificant to most people: that she was 25 when she started Hole. I fixated on this small detail because it gave me hope. I may have been 18, drug-addicted, and homeless, but knowing that Courtney was 25 when she started her band told me that I still had time. It wasn't over for me yet. You’ll hear little kids talking about their role models, those people who give them something to aspire to beyond their circumstances. Courtney Love did that for me. When I was a fucked up kid, she gave me hope. Hope that I still had time. Time to take my mess, and make something out of it. Hopefully something beautiful.

©Fiona Helmsley 4/12/14 (a version of this essay appears on the thefix.com.)