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July 19, 2007

It's Going Down Like London London London

Yes. I owe you.

But before I get to that Part 2 with Shorty and Mercy –

I just got home from London last week, two weeks ago, something like that. Justin played a show there on 07.07.07. This happened to also fall on the same time as Tour de France (whatever that is) and Harrod’s big gigantic sale that only happens once a year. I would have shopped but a) everything costs twice as much and b) there were so many people it was like shopping the day after Thanksgiving times ten, times ten.

My trip was fantastic despite the following:

1. You go through customs twice with 8 cases of musical equipment. Wires, boxes, cymbals, all kinds of things that look real fishy with a bearded half Puerto Rican half Indian bassist. Try it. Racial profiling is awesome. Do not email me about racial profiling. Get a fucking sense of humor, already.

2. Sit on the tarmac for an hour and a half in a seat that doesn’t recline trying to leave JFK. Bet you’ll love it.

3. Be forced to walk through the most amazing high end cosmetics and accessories shopping in Heathrow airport while you’re racing to your gate after again, checking 8 cases of equipment and see how spent you feel. Yeah, that’s just how they set it up. The long long long security queue spits you out in a shopping wonderland. Duty free. And there’s nothing you can do about it because your husband-to-be is already in a mood because of the customs situation and he ain’t stopping for no Lancome. No. Don’t even think about it. I didn’t dare put my lips together to even say Cl…Not Clarins, not Clinique.

4. I had been told the weather was disgusting and wet and gray. So I packed accordingly. I brought my Dunks and Timberland rain boots. And all clothes that aren’t the cutest because I just knew I’d find something to wear when I went shopping. I had planned to shop for two hours on the day of the show .Then I’d take a leisurely walk back to my hotel to rest before I had to make my way to Brixton. None of this was going to be possible, I would soon find out.

5. I got to Topshop and Harrod’s. Anxiety attack. Too many people. Can’t even look at the stuff. But I forged ahead. At Harrod’s there were five, count ‘em, five racks of shoes, lined up on both sides so really ten racks, in my size. Never happens to me. Usually, the size 5 sale rack doesn’t even exist. I fought through the crowds, nudging my way into the mirror trying on every shoe ever. There was a yellow pair of every day summer sandals and then a stunning gold pair of Lanvin strappy sandals with a white herringbone conical heel. When the man brought back the right foot of the yellow shoe, it did not fit. Apparently the left shoe that had been on the floor was all stretched. The right shoe, however, was not and my heel was somehow hanging off the back. Keep in mind, I’d spent about an hour looking for shoes at this point only to discover I wasn’t going to be able to adopt them after all. Then, the Lanvin ones fit immaculately. They were insane. They were also 600 of my American dollars. Um. Fucking fuck fuck fuck that. I thought this was a sale?

6. I really thought I’d shop for a couple hours and then rest. Instead, I left the hotel in the morning around 11. I didn’t get back to the hotel until 7:15 ish. Why? In my ugly rain clothes on the most perfect day of weather imaginable, a Mercedes smashed into the bus I was riding thus forcing me to unload that bus to find another bus which so wasn’t happening with all the Tour de France and shopping foot traffic. My girlfriend Lauren, who goes to school in London, said we should cut through the park. The park was brutal. People everywhere. I still have not purchased anything and it’s hot. My London touring outfit however is not.

7. I finally make it back to the hotel. The doors were at 7 for the show but I don’t need to be that punctual, right? I could get there around 8. Eat up catering. Make sure J’s got everything he needs. Shoot the shit with the other girlfriends. Shake hands with business-y people. Accept all my little congratulations on the engagement and then watch the kids fill up the venue. Right? This is going to be a perfectly timed night after all. I showered. Put on the cutest possible outfit I could come up with given the dumb shit I packed and we headed for the tube. That’s their subway. It was only four stops to the Brixton Academy where J was playing. Over the loud speaker, there was an announcement that some man fell underneath the tracks and died so there would be delays. It’s 8:40 pm at this point. J goes on at 9. I can’t believe this is happening to me. I mean, I feel bad about the dead man but I am not in the proper space to grieve this stranger’s untimely death. A tear welled up in my eye. Not for me. Not even for the dead man. But for J. I was like, How could I be this inconsiderate and this late to the biggest headlining show of his whole career? Granted, it’s not really my fault. It’s Tour de France’s fault and why is Tour de France in London and not France! Anyway, we sat in the tube for a couple minutes, makeup melting, before we got the bright idea to just catch a fifty-eleven million dollar cab.

8. We came up from the tube only to discover there would be no catching a cab. The traffic was standing still. All of it. For miles and miles. Inside, I was devastated but I didn’t want to let Lauren see it because she had just taken me all around today. Without her, I’d have been lost. That’s true. And there is no one at fault here so why make her feel bad for shit she or I can’t control? We went back down to the tube.

9. Bitch, the tube I’d just gotten off of – yeah, that one – that one took off right after I got off of it. So we just waited for the next one. Lauren has to pee really bad now and her feet hurt like a mother fucker. I feel terrible for her. And sad for J. How could I do this to him?

10. Everybody getting on the tube was going to Glassjaw (it seemed). They were anxious and so now I’m anxious. I’m tripping. The tube finally came and we got off at Brixton. We just followed the Glassjaw kids because we didn’t know where we were really going. I was speed walking like an asshole. Lauren has to pee “like it’s my job” she said. We got in right as they started to play the first song. And when I went to the security desk to check in, the lady said, “This is Melissa! Oh good, sweetheart. He didn’t think you were going to make it.” It is moments like this, when you realize your arrival is anticipated and it has been discussed with people who have been directed to put you where you need to be that you feel most loved. Maybe that’s just me.

And finally, this doesn’t even merit being in the list it’s so crazy. Here is the disclaimer:

I know that I will seem insecure, petty, mean and just plain stank. I know. But this is my brutally honest re-telling of the emotions. Don’t judge me. You’d feel the same way. Maybe you wouldn’t. But yeah, you would. You’d just not put it on the Internet. I’m just saying. Whatever, judge me if you want. This is how the shit went down.

The day before the show, they did a warm-up show in a little dive bar on a tiny little road in a tiny part of London where, apparently Pete Doherty does heroin and um, yeah J’s ex girlfriend showed up.

Rewind it back. Your eyes do not fool you.

J’s ex showed up.

Yes girl. Old girl was all the way up in mother fucking London to see him. (I like to leave out the part that she actually lives there, you know, to create better, more dramatic storytelling, but yeah she lives there. Hmph).

What does a girl like me do with this kind of information?

I’m 30, you know. You can’t really just get a running start and windmill drop kick a bitch in the throat just for showing up. It’s a free world. She can go where she wants. I’m supposed to not care. I’m supposed to be mature. I’m the one with this diamond ring on. Pinky rang worth about fiddy bling bling. I mean, at the core, I am still a country sweet tea drinking hood rat from Valrico when it all comes down to it. Sure, I've got my Long Island suburban costume on but I am still a southern girl that viewed stripping to pay for college a viable option. Until that scholarship came. Imagine! What a different person I'd be. So what do I do with this information?

I’m the one that knows his nephew. Raised him from a cub, met him fresh out of the clink. I’m the one who spends 27 minutes in casual conversation with Mama B like three times a day. I’m the one he’s been with for four times the amount of time he spent with her secure in the knowledge that he spent the last 6 months of their relationship breaking up. Ooh, that was mean. I take that back. But I do not backspace and delete.

She doesn’t even speak English. Okay, fine she speaks English. I should be ashamed of myself for saying that. But Mercy has a better grasp on the language to be perfectly honest. I’m just saying. Okay, she speaks English. What do you want from me!

They have nothing in common. She’s adorable in a squeezable way but she is nobody’s wife. She is inconsequential. She is but a pebble in the sand. She is nothing. She is nobody.

She is here.

I’m a grown ass woman so what do I do with this information? You see the quandary I am in. I spoke to the singer’s girlfriend. She told me that the ex spent at least five minutes talking and asking about “us.” Me and J. And she kept repeating, “Oh I hope he does not get mad that I showed up” and “I know his girlfriend is coming and I hope he is not upset I showed up.”

First of all, game recognize game. A sneaky m’fucker will straight recognize another’s antics. I am no fool. I was once a game-playing female from the age of 17 all the way up to like 25. I know what’s up. You only say “I hope he doesn’t get mad” in the hopes that he does, thus gaining the attention you so desperately seek. You only say “I hope she doesn’t get mad” in the high high high hopes that I do get mad and spend an entire night berating him for shit that’s not his fault. I understand the strategy here. I am no fool. What does a girl like myself do with this kind of information?

Am I genetically predisposed to wash away tumult with alcohol? Who could say?

With this information, I excuse myself and have a cocktail. What else, really, is there to do? I can't say hello. I can't go looking for her. I can't acknowledge, out loud, that this actually annoys me. That's like, breaking all the rules. Never let the interloper know you are fazed by her. Never. Except for when you write about the interloper on the Internet, but still, never.

Seems easy enough but no. I am forced to neck-roll and take my frustration out on the little bad body odor bartender. I ordered a cranberry vodka. I watched her put ice in the cup and proceed to fill the cup entirely with cranberry juice. She comes back and tells me what I owe. I say, “I wanted a cranberry vodka” with the emphasis on vodka. She said, “It’s in there.” I said, “No, it’s not actually.”

I have just left my body. Some crazy bitch, in a bizarre coincidence also named Melissa, has appeared and she ain’t having this shit. She ain’t having none of this shit for she is a gutter bitch.

Bad Body Odor said, “You can have a go at it” and lifted the cup to offer me to drink it. I sipped. It still ain’t in there. She told me I could order a double and pay extra. This drink is already costing me $8. Understand, too, that J doesn’t drink so he doesn’t think to put alcohol on his rider. HELLO! Is this a rock show or not? A girl can’t get a free drink in the back? What is this?

I’m like, “How about you put the single in there and we call it even?” And she stands there and looks at me real fucked up. You must understand that I haven’t been a bitch like this, in any customer service related snafu, in years! I mean, Sprint from years and years ago might have been the last official time. Since those many moons ago, I have coolly dealt with blatant racism, shady encounters with all kinds of people, disappointments left and right and have never just resorted to being a raw animal stone cold angry banshee.

Now, in this space I’m American. And I’m an American bitch acting all entitled. But really, I ordered vodka ya whore so get it cracking. I’m exactly the person that I imagine she despises. I actually say, “I get it. I’m the American bitch that is getting all cunty about the drink situation. That’s cool.” Can’t believe I used the C word. For real. I was disappointed in myself but the chain of events that lead me to this space – does anybody understand the duress, the stress, the uncontrollable urge I have to up and pinch a stranger, any stranger just because?

I put my little coins on the counter. J’s business partner notices the scuffle and comes up and pays for my drink. I know he was probably thinking I was fixing to get kicked out because I was mid neck-roll with one eye closed, mouth open, index finger to the sky. Fierce, stank, grimy body language going on. In my mind, I visualized smacking this lady right in the mouth. I really did.

I understand it’s real tacky to be the nasty band girlfriend. I know. I am usually quite nice. Ask anybody. J is completely unapproachable and in full-on work mode in situations like this and I make him take photos with fans. I’ll run up a flight of stairs with helluv records and drumsticks and other GJ memorabilia and straight interrupt the band mid-interview to make them sign shit for their fans that are just waiting out back, trying to say what’s up. I was that girl once. I just wanted to say hi and it meant a lot for a band to honor that one moment for me.

Granted, they are all really nice boys. Except J. He doesn’t mean to not be nice. He is just busy. He’s the tour manager, accountant, taxi, roadie, lights coordinator, merch man and guitarist. He’s got shit to do. I get that. But still, from the outside perspective, as a fan, you don’t see that. You just feel the rejection and then J gets a bad rap and it sucks so I make him take pictures. You understand. You see, I’m normally very nice.

But tonight, my cheeks are on fire. I’m fixing to cut somebody and it happened to be this little no deodorant ass bartender so whoever you are, I apologize. You did not put vodka in my drink. You did not put deodorant on your underarms. But you did not deserve that kind of venom from me. I’m sorry.

So there is my confession. I feel like I have worked very hard on my evolution. I want to be a genuinely nice person. Like, “Oh shit – Melissa is really nice.” I do. And I messed up in London. I was real mean to a stranger. I was real crazy. For a few moments. But I have put it out to the universe. I am sorry for how I responded to the world around me. But otherwise, London is great. And I'll have you know that I was not even moved for a moment when he came home to an inbox of email messages from her, including one where she says congratulations to him on his engagement in the same paragraph as "write back." Girl, you so crazy. Nope, didn't even flinch.

Now, about Shorty and Mercy…

Posted by melissah at July 19, 2007 11:47 AM