Gossip [&] the Devil

[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…

April 20th, 1984, 7:15p.m.

I died as soon as I was born. I wasn’t supposed to live, having fallen out of the womb too soon. With the aid of injections, within two weeks the doctors performed three months worth of developing my heart and lungs. My heart is now a large hotel without vacancies. When a room does open up, it takes years to fill. Modern medicine really is a miracle.

January 4th, 2009, 1:53 p.m.

The Story of how I came to be in this place of virtual webspace, and on various pieces of black and white marked paper bound in books you’ve probably never read, is a long one. [Could you have guessed?] But it’s charming, or so I’ve been told. I’ve met muses, heros, lovers, haters, livers, breathers, movers, shakers and lazy makers. I’ve met the hopeful. I’ve been the hopeless.

I’ll tell my Story in parts, little whispered secrets into a very large, empty space. Let’s see if I can hear my echo. The Story begins appropriately with the first, functioning muse of my career: Billy Corgan.

January 31st, 2000, 12:00a.m.

Singer/songwriter/svengali/Smashing Pumpkins mastermind, Billy Corgan [and company] are having an autograph signing in Lawrence, Kansas. My mother won’t take me, and passes the buck to my father, who’s slumped in front of the glowing T.V. “California is a faraway place,” is his  slurred reply. Both answers are entirely unacceptable, and the beginning pangs of razor edge intuition slice right through my stomach. This isn’t a choice.

I pack the essentials in an old army backpack [The Smashing Pumpkins CD's Machina and Adore, a poster, a change of socks and a bottle of water] and set the mess next to my bedroom door, before I dress how I believe to be “elegant” [ a black slip, ripped jeans, black/gold sparkly tights and maryjanes. Fashion is presentation and first impressions are essential when you have a burning arrow in your side screaming "these are the days, these are the people who will shape your life."]. I have no clue how to arrive at Kief’s Records on Iowa Street, but I’m not scared. I am a mother protecting her potential children, the poems I’d only begun  to write. Both of us need nourishment, and I’ll be damned if I’m to be denied.

I sit, plotting and devising a way to make the four hour drive, listening to mix cassette tapes I’d make for myself recording the Pumpkins from the radio. I have no money, only a will. I call my boyfriend to coordinate and ask for advice.

“I’ll take you up there. I know it means a lot to you,” was his reply.

January 31st, 2000, 6:00 a.m.

I’m 14 and going to run away, but only for a moment. Guided by dim street lamps lining 9th Street and breath making ghost-shapes in the chilly air I walk through the wet grass to my boyfriends house.  He’s 15. Neither of us have a proper liscense, but he has a permit and has recently bought his first car from a reposession sale at Eastman National Bank. A beat up, emerald green beretta, is to be my carriage to the ball, so that I could dance with a prince far more intriguing than I at the time…