EvilJulie.com

When I was 14, I always said that I wanted to be a rock journalist when I grew up.  Either that, or one of Sting’s back-up singers/dancers.  Because dammit, I could dance and shake a tambourine and sing.  But after I went to a couple of Sting concerts, I realized I could never be a Sting dancer because 1.) I wasn’t tall enough, and 2.) Sting only had black women as his dancers.  Leggy and black I will never be.  I shelved my hopes of being a Sting dancer.

However tonight, watching the VH1 Rock Awards, I have come up with a new career goal.  Def Leppard has back-up singers/dancers for when they do “Twentieth Century Boy,” and one of those girls was white.  And not all that tall.  When I grow up?  I’m going to be a Def Leppard dancer.

Coney Island’s own goth marching band.

Once upon a time, when I was in seventh grade, I had an awful Gifted teacher. And when I say awful I don’t mean personality-wise, although she was no prize. I mean, she was an awful teacher who had no real idea of what to do with Gifted kids. Gifted kids have to be kept busy or they get bored, and then they cause trouble that would astound people. Especially when there is a group of them that can collaborate about what trouble to cause. While Mrs. Gallagher seemed to comprehend this (which is more than I can say for my eight grade Gifted teacher, who was surprised when we figured out a way to get our desks out the windows and onto the playground), she did not comprehend that busy work is also not the way to go. Gifted students see through busy work and turn it around on you.

One assignment that she gave us was to write out the lyrics to a song that we liked and bring it in, so we could discuss how songs are really poetry. (Side note: DUH. We were Gifted, for crying out loud, we knew that.) She said that we could copy out any song, and when we brought them in she would pick out some to discuss.

I went home, checked out which tapes had lyrics in the liners and decided to copy out “Something to Believe In” by Poison. One problem, that song is damn long! I got about halfway through it, my hand was cramping up, and you know that this was in the days before computers so I couldn’t type it. I re-evaluated my choice of song. I looked for the shortest set of lyrics I could find.

I came up with Bruce Dickinson’s “Dive! Dive! Dive!”. It was short, it made me laugh, it was perfect. I copied it down, I took it to school, I handed it in. Mrs. Gallagher did not read it aloud, but I just chalked that up to her not liking metal music. Years later when I listened to the Tattooed Millionaire album again, I realized why she hadn’t read it.

(Lyrics behind the cut) View full article »

I’ve had Cabaret stuck in my head for the past two days, and when the review for Threepenny Opera (starring Alan Cumming, who also played the Emcee in the revivial of Caberet years ago) came out, I realized that I had never shared with the Internet the story of How Alan Cumming Introduced Me to the World of Sexual Fetishes.  It’s short, but good, and will tide you all over until I write up the story of My Visit to the Scientology Center While Drunk.  With TomKitten out of the womb, I figure it’s time for that story to come out as well.  But first, Alan Cumming.

The summer before my senior year of college, my friends Kim and Dawn joined me on a weekend jaunt to New York City to see the play ART.  Because Victor Garber was in it, dammit, and we loved Victor Garber long before he was Spy Daddy in Alias. It was our first trip to New York, and we were in awe of the big city.  We stayed in a hostel in midtown, where I learned about irony (The Sound of Music was playing in a theatre right beside the Private Eyes Sports Cabaret.  Side note, I still don’t understand the concept of “sports cabaret.”  Were there nekkid gymnasts inside?  Did someone re-enact Lady Godiva’s ride?  What?), about drug dealers, and about the clubbing lifestyle (one of our roommates slept all day and clubbed all night).

None of this has anything to do with Alan Cumming, but it serves to show that we were comparative wide-eyed innocents. So when we got the chance to see Cabaret standing-room only (the cheap seats), we jumped at it.  And waited afterwards to get Alan’s autograph.  He had to wear heavy makeup for that show, and was notorious for taking a while to get out after the show.  So an hour later, he emerges, and by this time they were turning the theatre into a club for the night.  The velvet ropes were out when I asked if I could get my picture taken with him.  He said sure, and stood behind the ropes while I stood in front of them.  He put his arm around me, and as my friend was readying the camera, he leans in and whispers to me:

“I like these ropes.  They remind me of being in a pen.”

The picture shows me smiling through gritted teeth, because as soon as the flash went off, I ducked out from under his arm, thanked him, and bolted down the street with my friends.  What can I say?  I was 20, and I knew absolutely nothing about s&m.  Alan obviously knew this and was having a little fun with me.

In retrospect, however, having the “frolicky bisexual sex symbol for the new millennium” talk to me about pens in his Scots accent?  Prety hawt.  And probably a major reason for me moving the New York a year later.  Thank you, Alan.