On Saturday, I met my Living Idol,   Patti Smith, and I was crushed that she didn’t ask to be my best friend.   She was actually perfectly nice, and autographed an old book of her poetry for me, but the distance between my fantasy and reality was intolerable for the rest of the day. I was overwhelmed by a feeling that   my life was totally pointless. I wished someone would shoot me in the head.   I felt a little like Mark David Chapman.

Today, I described the experience to my psychiatrist, who said, “Who’s Patti Smith?”

But he understood my feeling, because he is a good psychiatrist. My  disappointment at not being recognized as the Chosen One had already settled down; I am grateful to Patti for all the joy and inspiration she’s given me for 35 years. When I replay the encounter in my head, it is pleasant and fulfilling.

Your whole life is a narrative that you create in your head, and it is subject to emotional states, varying needs, perspective and the passage of time.

Some people need drugs to shift the narrative from unendurable darkness to something more moderate.   Other people seem to operate from a narrative that has little to do with reality but casts everything in a favorable light.

At my grief group tonight, I cried at every single story of loss, and wondered how all of us parents can create a narrative that will allow us to find meaning in our lives, not to mention acceptance of finality. I think the idea is to trudge through every day and month and year until you believe you’re something more than a grieving mother.

I think I use this blog as a way to shape my ongoing narrative.   It helps to structure my thoughts and feelings. I’m gradually learning not to be rattled when someone doesn’t like what I write. I’m even going to ignore a new outburst from that Crazy Russian Lady. I think this proves that I’m mellowing with old age. Or maybe I’m just  exhausted.

Sing along with Patti!

~

The power to dream / to rule
to wrestle the world from fools
it’s decreed the people rule
it’s decreed the people rule
LISTEN
I believe everything we dream
can come to pass through our union
we can turn the world around
we can turn the earth’s revolution
we have the power
People have the power ..

I was up late watching TV with my husband when I learned that Chrissie Hynde has formed a new band.   To my horror, she was playing second fiddle, so to speak, to her new beloved, JP Jones, an annoying Welshman half her age.

In case anyone failed to notice the age difference, she warbles it in the song “Perfect Lover.” (I found my perfect lover, but he’s only half my age…) In fact, she and this guy have released an entire album of songs about their doomed relationship. Evidently, Jones wants to raise a family and at 58, Chrissie has hung up her childbearing spurs.

My husband brought home the new CD the other day, and our son asked about it. I explained, “It’s Chrissie Hynde and some douche in a hat.” My husband begged to differ, in a sharp tone. He had seen them perform that afternoon and Chrissie had autographed his CD.

Still, it’s awful. Not just awful, but so awful that I longed to jump out of the car when we had to listen to it on a ninety minute road trip. All the songs are “nakedly” autobiographical, with lyrics like “I’m old, you’re not” ” you surprised me in the bar when I decided to take you home.” It’s like reading the diary of someone you admire and finding a bunch of LOL’s and smiley face thingies.

Poor Chrissie. She is so besotted with this douche that she’s lost all judgment. These songs prove beyond a doubt that a little ambiguity is vital where pop songs are concerned, unless you’re a poet like Hank Williams Sr. It was so embarrassing to listen to this shit, I had to cover my face to endure it.

Patti Smith got herself a cute young guy and let him play in her band, in the background. Not only that, he was a babe. Chrissie, call Patti to find out how it’s done, before that douche empties your bank account!

Thinking about the Stones during all the Exile on Main Street mania, I realized that while most girls cite Anita Pallenberg as a Style Muse, I would choose Keith instead.

Anita is gorgeous. She got at least two Stones to fall in love with her, after all. In the movie Performance, she was sex on fire. But stylewise, to me, she was just a Rock Chick. Shaggy fur coats, floppy haps, floaty blouses, bla bla bla.

But Keith! There was style. Even if he couldn’t play guitar, he would still be the essence of Rock style. No one before or since has nailed it like Keith. Jimmy Hendrix was great but his style verged on costume, whereas Keith was just naturally cool.

For years, I wore one earring, inspired by Keith. Sometimes I still do, and it’s an old tiger claw, just like Keith’s.   Python boots seem like a wardrobe essential, because Keith wore them. Watching Keith listen to “Wild Horses” in Gimme Shelter, eyes closed and foot tapping in his worn out python boots, you can only think: Coolest person ever.

I don’t know why my style idols are men or women who dress like men. My favorite photo of Frida Kahlo is the one where she’s dressed in a man’s suit.

Wearing dresses and heels makes me feel ridiculous. Hats, too. And yet I am a girlie girl with a Girlie Brain who hoards lipstick, jewelry and nail polish. I just feel more myself when dressed like a tomboy. I’m drawn to men’s shoes and men’s jackets. When I veer too far from this style, I feel silly and uncomfortable.

Is it a power thing? Dressing up like a girl equals Trying to Capture Male Interest. It’s important to me to feel tough. Or maybe it’s a boob thing:   Do girls with big boobs feel innately more feminine and thus drawn to girlie clothes?

Or is it just cooler to be a Rock Star than a Rock Star’s girlfriend?

Patti Smith gave a commencement speech at Pratt Institute on Monday night:

“I’ve been thinking about what I’d like to talk about: Moby Dick, the slaves of Michelangelo, Hans Hoffman, My Bloody Valentine, but now that I’m here, my greatest urge is to speak to you of dental care.   My generation had a rough go, dentally.”

Listen to the whole speech here. No one is wiser, funnier, or cooler.

Today I came across this bewitching long-haired girl and recognized her at once as another girl I want to be.

I don’t see many of them but when I do see one, it’s like an ache of remorse and disappointment. It’s like, I should have been her! What happened?   Here is another one. Her name is Pandora, apparently, which spells trouble, but I’d like to wake up and be her anyway. Click on her to see the full glory.

It seems to be all about hair, doesn’t it? It’s not just the hair, but hair is a big deal for me. I used to have a recurring nightmare that someone had cut off my hair. It’s a little like the one where you’re spitting out your teeth. The other night I dreamed there were bugs in my bathtub, and when I tried to squash them, they got bigger.   I would say that’s a Sisyphus dream….or maybe it’s just about anxiety.

Here’s another girl, I can’t remember where I found her but I see I have saved the picture as: “I will be her!”

Here’s a young model named Zippora Seven. Eerily reminiscent of Pandora, name-wise.

Why didn’t I get to be any of these girls? It’s a mystery I will never understand. Of course, I would much rather be Patti Smith or Amanda Palmer, but at this point I’ve learned to settle for worshiping them.

Looking through my file of photos, I came across this artist whose name is poetry itself: Marion Tampon-Lajarriette.

I don’t want to be her but I like the idea of putting “tampon” in my name like that. I guess that’s what Art is all about.

A reader brought up the subject of Cher, and while I’d rather ignore her, the issue of how to age gracefully is never far from my mind.

Regarding Cher and her reprise of the see-through bodysuit, it was horrible and inappropriate the first time around (in 1992?) and it still is today. Who gives a shit if she wears it at 40, 60, or 80 years old? The woman wants to look stupid and embarrassing; She’s Cher! It’s her shtick.

The problem is, we don’t want her influencing other older women who might see this as a green light to Dress As Young as They Feel.   Let us not encourage the tragic notion that age doesn’t matter. When we see a woman who seems blind to her own folly, and I’m talking to you Madge, it’s just sad.

Vivienne Westwood has managed to carry her look into old age, in part because she’s simply a great-looking woman, and because she knows what suits her. Maybe having the hot younger husband helps as well.

But Betsey Johnson makes me feel depressed. She looks like she doesn’t get it. Is she being ironic by looking like she’s nuts, or is she sincere? Patricia Fields is scary looking, but I’m guessing she works hard at being that scary. Pam Hogg looks nuts too, and I’d still like to know how old she is. Her look seems to say, I’m a Rule Breaker, Go to Hell if You Can’t Dig Me.

Most of us, though, have to be willing to accommodate old age into our look. It’s not nice to look 18 from behind and and then give someone a heart attack when you turn around. Half the woman in L.A. are unaware of this simple rule of etiquette. I personally have asked several friends to let me know when I start committing this gaffe but I think they pity me too much to let me have it.

To tell you the truth, now that Patti Smith has dyed her graying hair, I am feeling a bit disoriented.

What is Patti’s message to me? If she’s just saying, Fuck it, Who Wants Gray Hair, then I’m on board. Women who let their hair go gray are so misguided. It’s just bad, and that’s that. They might as well go around screaming I NEED ESTROGEN! (Fine, I have screamed that at my family on a couple of occasions, but that’s because I could feel my estrogen plummeting. They didn’t even need me to tell them, apparently.)

Women whose style is always evolving will probably have the best chance of carrying off old age without evoking pity or shock. Me, I’m in for trouble. My style hasn’t changed, but old women in tight jeans tend to offend me. I’m thinking, oh god, Woodstock is over, lady.

And they’re probably thinking the same thing about me!

Whenever I need to learn something new, I turn to Susan. If it’s cool, she knows about it. She introduced me to photographer Jennifer Tzar, whose photos tend to have an air of otherworldy nostalgia. This girl with the purple hive is exactly who I want to be!

I now realize that I’ve snagged lots of pictures of Girls I Want To Be. Here’s another one.

She’s wearing a skirt I’ve seen on Amanda Palmer, and god know I’d like to be Amanda Palmer! This next one is in the same ballpark, but with Natalia Brilli accessories.

Now, this one is a little scary but she’s still a Girl I Want to Be (wearing accessories by Manuel Albarran.)

The saddest thing ever is that I’ve always wanted to be blond, even though my BFF’s wig proved beyond a doubt that god didn’t make me blond for a good reason:

Aaaaaah!   So, now the trick is to remember that I’m not 20.   Yesterday, while not considering this key fact, I flipped out over these blue sequin pants….but luckily I remembered this morning, when I saw them again for $100 less.   Be gone, sequin pants, and don’t slam the door on your way out!

At least I can sort of approximate Patti Smith in my Ann Demeulemeester jacket.

It’s good to be satisfied with who you are and what you look like, probably. But wouldn’t a purple beehive be fucking fantastic?!

A while back, I wrote on the subject “Why Men Hate Women,” and I still get comments from angry men. (If you enjoy angry men, go and look!)

Today, after reading some of my email, I’m wondering if women are starting to hate themselves, too. Why else would anyone listen to Suzanne Somers, who went on Oprah to discuss her beauty regimen: 60 pills a day and injections in her Female Area!

Why else would anyone want to wax her Female Area, spray it with “24K gold” and have Swarovski crystals glued to it? You must really have to hate the sight of your crotch to mess with it like that.   Ladies, or gay men, do you want to see your man’s Johnson sprayed gold and glued with rhinestones?

God, it’s depressing. We haven’t come very far if this is our lot in life. If the best we can hope for is to pump our faces full of Botox and work out 3 hours a day to look like Madonna at fifty, it would be better to go back to the good old days when pubic hair was actually sexy and you didn’t have to look young forever. You could just wear a girdle if you got fat, and you could stay home and play bridge instead of touring the world in a leotard and top hat.

Are there any decent role models out there besides Patti Smith and Naomi Klein? Maybe we need to cultivate other qualities besides youthfulness and hairlessness. This might be a good subject for our pajama party.

Here is the badge thingy I made for it, but I know Honeypants or someone else could improve it.   Please have a go at it, and send it to me!

Tonight I went to see my Living Idol, Patti Smith, and as always it was a transcendent experience.

To top it off, I came upon this kindred spirit, who was nice enough to pose with me.   My nephew was wearing his official PAP Smear T-shirt, too!

Doesn’t the cunt-guy look familiar?? We feel we’ve seen him somewhere. Cunt-guy, if you read this, report to PAP Smear headquarters immediately.