Gossip [&] the Devil

Orphans:

I know it’s been a bit since I’ve had brand new work posted online. Well I’m about to break that cycle. As most of you know I’m a big fan of writing and reading flash fiction – it’s a genre I’m still new to but am learning, with the help of criticisms from editors and peers, rapidly how to shape a 1000 word or less word picture.

I currently have a new flash fiction piece entitled “Living Under Glass” featured on Troubadour 21, which is a wonderful site marrying art and poetry, for “writers in the 21st century.” It hosts a plethora of poetry, photography and short stories, providing a home to many artists under one impressive roof.

“Living Under Glass” is part of my “Big Brother Billy” series, in that Billy comes home to his younger sister and a number of short fiction pieces ensue. Each piece isn’t linear and isn’t meant to tell a story in and of themselves, but rather a back story is to be gained from their peculiar and semi-incestuous interactions. I started them back in 2007 and so far I’ve only had one real champion of that series but I’ve always felt it had more to say. According to the short story editor and the executive editor for T21, they do too. So expect more from the series shortly! For now, check out “Living Under Glass:”

“Living Under Glass” on Troubadour21

Help me become a “Readers Choice” by getting my view count up! If you know anyone that might enjoy semi-rockstar inspired, image heavy works, direct them my way Orphans!

My If All Goes Wrong flier next to a handful of Metro wristbands. I'm still a fangirl at heart.

I’ve been away for a little bit and during my hiatus the Fall issue of Common Line went live! This issue features my article, “If All Goes Wrong (And How to Come Back When it Does),” on The Smashing Pumpkins DVD If All Goes Wrong–an article I’m quite proud of and Kerry Brown, who worked sound on IAGW and even won a Cinema Audio Award for his efforts, has endorsed it on his Twitter! Kerry is currently in the studio with Billy in Chicago, so if you’ve got a Twitter account and want to stay updated, click their respective links. Or keep up with their in-studio blog here. It’s a feel good, hippy-full-to-the-brim-with-God time over there.

I was lucky enough to catch one of one-day only screenings of the DVD that happened to be playing in Tulsa, OK at the Circle Cinema. I will say first and foremost I wasn’ t expecting it to be as good as it was. It is far and away one of the least painful documentaries I’ve ever had the pleasure of watching. However, one of the things that hit me hardest during that screening and the subsequent times I’ve viewed it, is what appears to be the lack of heart in the lyrics. The music has so much soul and power but the lyrics just seem to be suffering, hummed along because they match a tune, the time machine in words like “tarry” and “morrow” creeping it’s way to capture us all and take us to Victorian England where we’re all fucked up on opium and racked with syphilis. It’s like he’s given all his blood to the instruments and left none for arguably his most important one: his voice. I say that only because Corgan has made such a big deal out of connecting to the “kids” and fans, plagued with that desperate need to be needed, wanted, not abandoned. To do that you must ask them to stay and I didn’t find many of the lyrics that moving, save many of what ended up on the American Gothic EP. I’m not the only one who thinks so.

It’s one of my greatest worries with this new album, Teargarden by Kaleidyscope. I don’t care if it’s about the tarot, God, fucking your best friend’s model hot under-age sister or remembering why you make music but, as a fan, I want to connect and want no part of the process to go ignored. By now Corgan and Co. have been in the game long enough to know how to divide their time, but that’s just my opinion and admittedly I’ve only watched a very few videos from their short lived Spirits in the Sky run featuring Dave motherfucking Navarro.

This reminds me that I’ve yet to post part the 5th and final part of the adolescent jetset you’ve no doubt forgotten about by now. G[&]D started taking off so fast, interviews, submissions, acceptances, rejections, books, merchandise, touring…the story got lost in the shuffle and that’s a terrible disservice. But I’m going to post it out of principle. The end of the story must be told. This story was arguably what helped start what Gossip [&] the Devil is today, the jetsetting ways, the deep-seated desire to tell my muses thank you and a first-hand, adolescent account of the power of the humanities and their ability to change the course of someone’s life forever. The ever-inscribed idea that art cannot die as long as we keep making it.

For you, Billy.

Bedroom. One of many.

To recap: [part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4]

The cops called my mother and threatened to take us to juvenile detention if we didn’t know anyone in the city. I’m sorry, where are we exactly? oh, Topeka. What time is it again? 2 a.m., fabulous. We had gone west across Kansas instead of south, toward Oklahoma. The cops were going to tow the car, we were going to jail. We cried. You’d think I would have been dead from dehydration, I’d cried so much that day. I asked them if I could take my autographed stuff to jail with me, then asked if they would at least hold it for me until I got out. Again they said no.

I thought I was going to die. All this work and trouble, taken from me.

By a sheer stroke of something perverse, my mothers boyfriends ex-wife’s current boyfriend just happened to live in Topeka. I didn’t know him and my mother only vaguely knew him but we agreed to let him come get us if that meant no juvenile time. He arrived and we parked the car near a 7-11 and I rode in the passenger seat of his pickup truck, sniffling and clutching my treasures. Things were going to be fine. Just fucking fine.

He made us breakfast in the morning while we waited for our parents to come and get us. Some fried potato concoction. I slept on my backpack all night–my stuff wasn’t going anywhere without me. By the time our parents arrived I was so fucking annoyed with his dogs and his ramble that I could have walked back to Oklahoma myself.

My mother grounded me and his father grounded him. We weren’t allowed to see each other for 2 weeks and I had to pay half of his court costs, of which he had to come all the way back to Topeka to pay and show for court. However, his court date just happened to be on the same day as an Insane Clown Posse show in Lawrence, so we had a friend who was going take us up there and it actually ended up turning out quite alright, for all the fuckery that had ensued.

Living room, l'orgie sonore.

This whole thing set the stage for what was to be the rest of my life. My little brain trying to wrap itself around these huge ideas and theories, the notion of a “concept album,” philosophies and angles, feeling so educated and intelligent, analyzing lyrics and pondering, with intensity, the meaning of the universe inside certain songs, other fans around me doing the exact same. Our own club of outcasts, fighting against the big, bad cock rock world, all so young now that I look back on it. Other girls with braces, pimple faced academic bowl boys, budding hipsters and eventual college graduates. It felt good, felt right. I was miles away from home in a faraway kingdom about to receive my reward for being so faithful to the throne.

This was our home. Not the demons we all ended up crawling into bed with that night, or the next night, or the next. The familiar feeling that the person behind or in front of you knew exactly what you were talking about as soon as the words left your lips. Anymore I’d likely greet the same sort of situation with a more jaded eye, having lived a little more, knowing now that I was probably mistaking complexity for pretension and so forth. But at the time it was like our lives were only beginning and we were witnessing the creation of an entire universe built solely for us to inhabit and occupy for the next generation to come along and be saved too.

[Parts: I, II, and III]

Billy @ the Rockwalk induction. "Lick clean the dirty fingers."

[Oh my how the drama is unfolding. You know, it's difficult writing this from such a young perspective. It's difficult to capture the true excitement with such jaded years behind me. Part of me wants to get back to that sparkle, the other part is glad I'm not so new. The other part of me realizes it's been for fucking balls ever since I've posted another part of this story and should probably do so.]

[Also I have exactly ZERO pictures from this time. It's as black and white as the words you're reading. There's a lesson in here somewhere.]

The Storm Trooper guard grunted at me again. I finally came back to earth long enough to push a picture toward Billy, some large, gaudy shot from the Adore era I’d torn from a Smashing Pumpkins calender given to me for my birthday years prior. [The autograph has since been stolen]. He scribbled his name and I watched his hands; hands that to this day I compare all other men’s hands to, no lie. Something about the shape and capability of them. The ability to hold ambition. He smiled again and I repeated a quiet, wavering “thank you,” before I was shuffled out the door. The freezing air held me, tears so hot they had no time to stick to my face, falling in fat drops down equally fat cheeks.

The whole thing took less than 10 minutes. Sometimes that’s all it takes. 10 minutes. 17 seconds. A hug. And like that you’re set down a path.

My inner voyeur couldn’t resist watching through the glass for a few more minutes as he greeted other fans, scowling at the security guards trying to shoo me away. I happily waved goodbye to those I’d met in line, most of which were crying too. I knew I’d never see them again, but the fact remained, we’d done this together. [Which is saying something. I'm not a fucking team player.]

In my elation, when we’d stopped to fill up for gas I bought chips and sodas for the way home. One split Yellow Sub sandwich over nearly a 24-hour period didn’t cut it. [Celebratory dinner?] However, as we approached I-35 we realized: We’d just spent our toll money.

Motherfucker.

I refused to spend the money Billy had given me, even if it meant an easier way home. We were too scared to blow the tolls since we didn’t have licenses to begin with, no sense in attracting cops.

Navigating the interstate was hard enough, but trying to find a way home without it was near impossible. We’d driven for a few hours, through weird, Friday the 13th-ish dirt roads, small sleepy towns and scary truck stops. Finally we came upon this little biker bar in the middle of fucking nowhere, desperate for directions. My boyfriend went inside and locked the car door, telling me to yell loudly if anyone came out and bothered me. [Remember we were 14 and 15, respectively.] The new Pumpkins single “Stand Inside Your Love” came on the radio. When he returned he was carrying a fistful of crumpled one-dollar bills.

“Hey this waitress gave me her tips because she felt bad.”

We’d ended up something like a hundred miles west of where we needed to be. But we found our way back. Things were going to be fine…

…until we were pulled over for going “too slow.” We’d been on the interstate exactly 15 minutes when we had to exit again so deputy fucking dog and his sidekick could blind us with a spotlight.

Imagine: two kids, nervous, trying to stay right between the lines, trying in vain to obey every traffic rule we could remember. Legally, the only way you can drive with a permit is if you have an of-age, licensed driver in your car. Since I was neither, we were fucked.

There’s always a price you pay for following your bliss. A balance has to be made.

First test of faith: keeping it in the face of crisis.

[Bonus round before part 5: tell me the frame of refrence for this tattoo and I'll send you a couple Gossip [&] the Devil pins before they hit the merch store. Email julie [at] devilgossip [dot] com with the answer. Family and those who attended the tattooing are not eligible. Don’t post in comments. I’ll fucking punt your first born onto the train tracks.]

It's a good thing I get regular pedicures. I have toes longer than some men's penises. (Peni?) That's kind of gross.

[Part 5 - later. But not as long as it took to post Part 4. I'd promise but then when I broke said promise you'd look at me like the father who keeps saying "next time" when you ask  him to come to your baseball games. I don't fucking like baseball.]

remnants of ages past.

[Parts one and two, in case you missed them. There won't be snarky links in this one. I'd rather you actually read. xxoo]

They were here. I felt like I’d died waiting in line, fiery heart rolling to a frozen beat. My life had ended. My life began again. In that moment I was brand new, my first phoenix-kiss.

The shivering kingdom rose to greet the king we’d just spent hours discussing, measuring out the severity of self-inflicted scars, swapping stories of loss and abuse, alienation, chain-smoked cigarettes even at that young age; it all culminated to this point, this one moment where we knew it was real. We rejoiced, our numb fingers raised in appreciation, Styrofoam cups thrown to the side in favor of clutching chests, heads, faces and vinyls.

We lined up and began the countdown all over again, rows of people wrapped around shelves of CD’s, plastic and paper walls keeping us from a little table set up at the far end of the store. Even inside the tiny building you couldn’t see them for the sea of people, posters and space, but I knew they were there. I rounded a rack of t-shirts and was promptly greeted with the sight of Billy’s bald head and immediately started to cry. Up until that point, I’d never known what it felt like to cry from sheer happiness.  I hated crying. I still do. I grabbed my boyfriend and tried to breathe. Looking back I sort of blush, but at the time it was quite possibly the only plausible reaction my over-stimulated 14-year-old brain could have produced. The whole thing was insanely beautiful.

I approached the table, the order burned into memory: Melissa Auf Der Maur, James Iha, Jimmy Chamberlain and, finally, Billy Corgan. Melissa signed my “Adore” booklet, though it irritated me she wasn’t on the album. James scribbled his name on an obnoxiously huge picture of him, writing the word “sexy” next to his face. Jimmy signed a plastic insert saying “Smashing Pumpkins” that I’d stolen from a record store back home.

This isn't mine, I wasn't able to snap a picture thanks to security. I stumbled across this on smashingpumpkins.com, a user there had attended the same signing. I can't remember their name, but if you're reading, email me and I'll gladly credit you.

Billy, however, was a different beast. It’s always hard when you put so much emotion, so much stock into a single character, and, make no mistake, he was a character to me at the time. He was SUPERHERO BILLY CORGAN LEAD SINGER EXTRAORDINAIRE–SAVER OF LIVES AND SANITY. I’d put so much on him that when I finally came face to face with just “Billy Corgan,” tall, gangly and appreciative, I was taken aback,  mouth moving but forming nothing. I was dressed in ugly red cheeks, a runny nose and flat hair. Finally I managed out:

“I’ve been waiting seven hours and I’m freezing and starving and have no money and just thank you so much for who you are.”

Those were my great words of wisdom to my first and most moving muse. I had no fucking clue what else to say.

He sort of blinked at me, shockingly blue eyes registering a firecracker hint of confusion before standing to give me a hug and kiss my cheek. He stood back and began to dig through his pockets, producing a few used Trident gum wrappers, his cell phone and three dollars. He slid the money across the table to me.

“Well, here.”  I just stared, bewildered and sniffling.

“Excuse me?”

“Here. Its all the cash I’ve got on me. Go buy some eggs and ham, or…something.” He shrugged and smiled. I carefully took  his money and sniffled again.

Did Billy Corgan just give me money to eat? What the hell? I stared at his hands for a long time until the Storm Trooper security guard grunted in irritation.

Again, this isn't mine, I stole this from the same user over at smashingpumpkins.com. Again, if you have issues, email me and I'll credit you.

Don’t fuck with me right now, I thought. I’m having a moment. And that moment has lasted for over 10 years.

I thought my journey was over. But we hadn’t made it home–yet.

Briefly, before the story continues:

You now subscribe to my feed! Take a look on the right-hand side of the page and you’ll find a tiny box for your email, which allows you to know when I’ve updated before anyone else! Sort of like the VIP for this page, if you will. It’s that easy! *informercial voice* Just SET it, and FORGET it!

[Brought to you by your friendly authoress. All opinions expressed herein are the sole property of said authoress, and do not necessarily reflect the opinions of the entire internet.]

January 31st, 2000, 6:00 a.m. [continued]

I’ve taken a handful of change to pay for the tolls down I-35 in Kansas. I’ve also managed to steal a pack of my father’s Marlboro Lights, and a pack of Djarum Black clove cigarettes from the smoke shop his girlfriend owns. My boyfriend has his father’s gas card, a gallon of water, an atlas and eight bucks. We don’t check the oil or tire pressure. We don’t call in sick to school. These small things don’t matter. In my 14-year-old mind, we have all we need: A destination.

My navigational skills are less than stellar as I chain-smoke against the boyfriend’s wishes in his car. We end up lost somewhere along I-35, thereby turning a four hour drive into a six hour joyride through the flat lands of Kansas. I’ve never stepped foot outside my hometown alone, and as the clock progresses I become anxious, worried that the whole entirety of the world is going to be in the very same line to meet these people and I will have the opportunity snatched from my nail-bitten fingers right before my eyes.

January 31st, 2000, 1 p.m.

We arrive around 1 p.m., greeting the 40 or so people in  line with open arms. Everyone around me shares my enthusiasm, discussing various albums and interviews, singles, vinyls, the Mellon Collie demos [and the ever-mysterious "666" tape] vs. the final product, various guitar sounds and vocal melodies.  Did Billy’s voice sound better on acoustic or electric recordings? I am in fan-girl heaven, able to let my tongue loose to those that understand.

The cold begins to settle in, and I stand shivering in the 17 degree weather, freezing rain sporadically pelting down, huddling under a flimsy cloth awning and readily drinking warm apple cider born from powder packets, courtesy of a local radio station. A record store worker goes on a pizza run although it only ends up feeding the first few in line. A group of older boys in front of me, about 16 years old or so, ask me to hold their place while they run to get sandwiches from Yellow Sub. They leave me their giant, silver, puffy “moon” coat in the meantime, while I apologize in advance for making it smell like smoke. They don’t care, they’re as happy as I am. When they return they bring me and my boyfriend a sandwich too. I could have kissed them.

As I eat I talk to a girl behind me who’s flown from England for the meet-and-greet. She’s holding the Adore vinyl and I’ve never seen it before: A beautiful color shot of a gaunt model in a red rose, almost more impressive than the original black and white album cover itself. I touch it like an ancient relic. Everything of theirs is so precious to me , this music that’s changed my life so readily, these people I’m about to meet. Another boy behind her has the Pisces Iscariot vinyl. I don’t have access to these things where I’m from, and my wide-eyed expressions and elicited gasps are palpable. The minutes crawl by, the sun sets and still we wait.

The world fucking stops when that black van pulls in…