An Open Letter to An Anti-celebrity Celebrity, A Celebrity, and Y’all

Dear Toby Stephens,

Please be in more comedies. You are quite funny and have cracking comedic timing. If you are lacking comedy screenplays, I have one that would suit you. I’ve written it. OK, so, it’s not exactly a screenplay, it’s a novel, but it could be adapted as a screenplay. It’s an unconventional story and would win us both  laughs, awards, and stuff.

I’ve intrigued you with the ‘and stuff’ part, haven’t I?

Love, your pal,

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Oldbitey ~~~~~

 

Dear Bitey-ites,

I do not expect an answer, from Mr Stephens, but you know I know dreams, as goofy-arsed as they are, do come true. I had that big fat ridiculous dream where I pulled an Emma Thompson and won an Oscar for Best Sceenplay and Best Actress. I thanked Toby for his talent, generosity and making me look so damn good. Yes. Yes! I know it was a dream, but please, recall if you will my Glenn Tilbrook fantasy-come-true moment of 2007–Jeepers was it three years ago that I stood on stage (albeit a tiny one) and sang Genitalia of A Fool with GT– was also dream, a big fat ridiculous goofy-arsed dream, and it came to fruition. So who’s to say what will happen with Mr Stephens? We know, that is, you, Glenn, and I know we’ll do another duet (if he ever comes back here again). How dreamy is that?

Love, your pal,

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Oldbitey

And on that note…

Dear Glenn Tilbrook,

Please, when you are done with your Japan leg of the Love Hope & Strength tour, come back here. Oz misses you and I am primed to step beside you again and croon.

Maybe we could do Lost In Space this time? Although I’m not averse to doing a Squeeze song, such as Messed Around if you prefer. Come on. You know you want to. I sing well and I’m cute and stuff.

Or so I’ve been told.

Love, your pal,

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Oldbitey

 

 

Daydream Believer

My life is now akin to Walter Mitty’s.

You know Walter, don’t you? He’s a classic in American literature. Walter, As in The Secret Life of,  is a creation of the genius James Thurber. Mr Mitty spends his day deep in daydreams. One moment he’s a Navy Pilot, the next he’s a brillant surgeon, an assassin, an RAF Pilot, and a man facing a Firing Squad, which, if you ask me, is really on par with presenting a paper at the upcoming IASPR conference.

Being a faker is like daydreaming too, and it’s got me wondering about something. How old is the average person when they stop daydreaming?  When was the last time YOU stood in front of a mirror and pretended to be Madonna/Beyonce/Iggy Pop?  Me? I haven’t stopped. I still pretend I’m beside Glenn Tilbrook, singing, and since that’s one Walter Mitty daydream that came to fruition, who says my other fantasies won’t too?

And get your mind out of the gutter. The kind of fantasy I mean is not about sex.

Shrinky says fantasies are healthy.  It’s OK to think about ways to murdering your co-worker–the one who has 9 heads, fetid BO, and chews with her mouth open so food falls out–but it’s not healthy to actually do her in. So, if acting like you know what you’re doing is the key to success, then so is Walter Mitty-style daydreaming because you have to picture yourself pretending to know it all (which, as many of you out there who have played Oldbitey in Trivial Pursuit know I do know it all). I’m picturing myself all right. I’m daydreaming my ass off. Look at me. There’s is nothing I can’t do! See this big fat smile? I’m about to step out onto the tightrope. I’m perfectly balanced with my notes and head full of knowledge. I can do this act without a net.

Or is that a blindfold?

Gushing like Niagara Falls

In a week full of viral fatigue that’s kept me in bed, I have had some excitement.
No. Not a publishing deal. Not an offer of agency representation. Not even  a lifetime supply of Snyder of Hanover Sourdough Hard Pretzels (one day all this free advertising might just net me some free pretzel gold!). 

But it is something very, very exciting to Oldbitey!

I warn all of you out there. Look away if you can’t abide my total, all-eclipsing dorkitude and continuing groupiedom.

Ahem, My friend KHWP, in Cleveland, just saw a newly-reunited Squeeze over the weekend, just before Glenn Tilbrook’s birthday. When she spoke to Glenn (she’s a fellow dork like me) he remembered singing Genitalia of a Fool with me back in April 2007. KHWP said he got all smiley and excited. And he remembered her too, he knew the whole story of how it all came to be.  She’s the reason why I got to sing with him because she asked him to autograph the twenty-year old picture that invited me to sing with him the next time he was in this town.

So, fatigued or not, I’ve got a big dorky smile on my face.

Years ago, when JJC and I attended a show in Cincinnati, Glenn remembered me because I was “the girl who burnt her arse on a metal chair during the sound check at last week’s outdoor show in Chicago.”  Yes, that’s surely a moment that would be burned into anyone’s memory.

But this. This is so much better. 

A writer’s tool

Mr Blue is back, Mr Sun is out, and it’s lookin’ like time to saddle up. If I was slightly taller I would have a Sportster, the “most girly bike”  Harley Davidson makes. In candy apple red. But I know my limitations. 

Honest. This is not some wild Glenn Tilbrook dream that will take 20 years to come true. It doesn’t take a brain like Newton’s to establish a Sportster is three times my body weight. 
Forty-five kilos -vs-  just does not compute.  
Oh, I may snarl just a loudly and people part ways for my thunder, but how the hell could I possibly hold this baby upright at the lights? Or set it on its side-stand? I’d look guuuuud on that mama, but I look damn fine on a scooter too. I think the word I’m actually looking for is stylish. I can do stylish. That word feeds my inner Grace Kelly and we all know Grace would have ridden a Vespa (or a Scoopy), not a Hog.

Whoa. My time’s up. I have to finish writing this chapter. But before I go, how do all you feel about books that start with a thunderous Harley clatter and end with a scootery whizz–a stand up-and-kick-to-move kind of scootery whizz?  The book I just finished was like surprisingly bad sex with someone who is a good kisser. Based on the lip action you expect delivery, yet the the goods just don’t live up to the promise. So with this story I was dazzled by a few brilliant first kisses, then it completely lost wood and I was left feeling depressingly…unsatisfied

My only choice was to imagine how I would have finished the story if I had written the book… Which led me to think that if Ghost writers are Viagra for books then computer keyboards are vibrators for writers.

As you say, Cheers then!

In my totally groupie, drumbstruck-with-awe kind of way, I’d like to wish a very happy birthday to my niece and Glenn Tillbrook! it’s a day early for you both, but by the time you both see this it will be the 31st here.

Rest assured I ate cake for you. 

 If I drank, I’d raise a pint to Glenn. Instead, I’ll sip my Starbucks cinnamon latte and remember back to April, when we were both a little younger. 
But ages looks good on you. On me too. Plus, honey, you’re still smokin’ on that there guitar! 

See? I have proof. Look everyone, it’s Voodoo Child, Voodoo Glenn!

A planeload of tattoos

On the way to the RWA conference in Sydney it was a van full of elderly men. They were especially happy to have some little blonde female have to squeeze by to squish into a seat that was all the way at the back of the bus. Oh they checked me out, patted my hip, told me I could sit on their laps, and winked.

On the way back it was different. I shared my shuttle with a Greek family whose Ya-ya wore an overpowering gardenia perfume. 

Then came time to board my flight home. At first, it was a toss up between bikers and musicans because the Qantas lounge was full of long-haired dudes with serious tats.  Oh the tats…Dragons, Jesus, buff comic book chicks with comic book breasts, and snakes. There were a few snakes. 

I sat next to one. 

Once we finally boarded, I had a middle seat, in a sea full of musicans, road crew members and tech guys. To my left, in the aisle, was the sound engineer from Findlay, OH. On my right, at the window, was Dave ‘Snake’ Sabo, guitarist for Skid Row, songwriter, film score composer, former neighbour to Jon Bon Jovi, guy who,at 12 had one single manly-man hair on his chest.

Oh I got completely checked out. ME. I got checked out by all the crew. They popped up out of their seats like prarie dogs to scope me out–just like the old men on that shuttle bus–and gave me the thumbs-up. After a while the joking stopped, the cat calls ceased, the guys settled down, and I wound up have a fascinating conversation with Snake Sabo that ranged from marriage, friends, having children, taking care of family, to being the place were you feel most loved and valued.

Despite the tats and the rock and roll lifestyle he once lived, he was just a guy with nice manners, a down-to-earth man who no longer sports big 80’s hair, or drinks to excess, loves his mother, and knows the value of old friends. He gave me his card, invited me to see the show, and wished me luck with my writing.  

Our conversation made me think of a woman in my master’s class. She’s writing a novel about a woman who meets a rock musican. Snake was that musican come to life. 

So you know what I did? 

I strapped on my Katie-Sue armour (because she can talk to anyone) and asked Snake if I, or LB, could squeeze him for information and use that information as fodder for a novel or someone else’s novel. He pointed to the card I’d put in my pocket and said, “My email address is on the card.” 

Now that was just cool, especially considering I was never a Skid Row fan. Then this happened (and I hope to God I didn’t squeal), he said Chris Difford and Glenn Tilbrook are melodic geniuses he admires the hell out of! Which, to me, makes Snake very, very cool.

When the hitman comes he knows damn well he has been cheated

And he says… I bet you’re singing the next line, aren’t you? Yeah. You are. I know you are. .

I had to do it. I had to. It was Golden Earring, man! Golden Earring! Screw Elton John, It’s your song. 

That just happens sometimes, doesn’t it? You hear a song and suddenly you’re back in that 1980 Toyota Celica with one of your best mates, in the middle of a Michigan winter. The inside of the car smells like the boxed up pan pizza you couldn’t finish at Pizza Hut. You have the sun roof open, the heat blasting, and the stereo as loud as you can make it. Golden Earring’s playing Twilight Zone. You two are singing along, playing bass, drums, and twanging like you’re a guitar. 

Nearly 25 years later, you hear that song again. And you’re still mates with that guy who used to sumo wrestle and drop by your house when you weren’t home because your mom always made him something to eat.

So hats off to the kid next door, the one who knew all the words to WHAM’s Bad Boys (doot doot doot do doot hoo hoo!), the glossy haired girl with the travellin’ tape, a road trip to Chicago, and Black Coffee In Bed, the curly redhead, her Honda Civic, and Lone Justice’s Shelter

I think of you all. Thanks for the memories.

Now I feel like pizza. McDonald’s Fries. Or breadsticks and iced tea.

It’s Grup, Not Grub

That’s actual size, but I seem much bigger to me.  

Since our previous episode, I’ve written 5,000 words (61,000 so far, another 30,000 to go), fretted while Katie-Sue was de-biled, I’ve read 10 books, bought some stilletto heeled boots, and shelled out hu-gombous bucks to see The Police. STING, Come to Greece! Oh Illious “Lou” Zontirous, where are you now?

Sorry. My past just slapped me in the face like a pair of Greek man-titties. Only one person out there understands, Lou notwithstanding, and she don’t read this LJ. She should. She lived the experience with me.

So, five hundred smackers to see Stewart, Andy and Gordon. Glenn Tilbrook tix cost a mere $20, plus cover, with a dream-fulflilling fantasy tossed in for free! Will I be as successful with my front row seats only grup money could buy? Do I actually have a sing with Sting fantasy? 

Well, No. 

But damn you know I’m going to crowd surf, jump into the mosh pit, and dance my non-existent ass off when they do Next To You, which they better do.

Ok, so why the $500? Well, three reasons. First, I had no choice. It’s a frickin’ stadium show. I wasn’t going to pay $150 for seats where I had to look at a giant LCD screen. I had to be in the fray, down where I could SEE. Not that I’ll be able to see over the sea of heads, but I’ll be close enough my nose won’t bleed due to the extreme height of a cruddy seat. 

Second, concert tix in this wide brown land cost an arm and a leg, plus indeminty insurance and air fare.

Third, It’s The Police. It’s grupdom, it’s what a childless couple with a white couch and no children DO. Needless to say, after that gruppy wad o’ dough, we’re going to miss the Cure, Snow Partol and The Killers.

I miss you KHWP. Wish you were here to see them with me.

Music newsie

It’s groupie time again!

Ed Roland and his buds have a new CD coming out soon. Soon a new Collective Soul will be mine! Insert evil, mad scientist style laughter here.

Ok, so I have to wait until 2008 for Glenn’s next solo Cd, I can still listen on myspace–even if I hate myspace. The point is It’s Glenn and I can be a goo-goo-eyed groupie. 

Hello, Pete Yorn, are you listening?