Your Big Sister asked an old friend, Curtis DeMartini, who has since birth lived and breathed music, to write a tribute to Adam “MCA/Nathaniel Hornblower” Yauch, co-founder of the Beastie Boys. This past week, Adam passed away of cancer at the age of 47.
Curtis wrote:
I have to admit that when I first heard The Beastie Boys monster debut hit (You Gotta) Fight For Your Right (To Party), I thought they were merely a novelty; a flash in the pan. Truth be told, we thought rap was a passing fad. Back then MTV actually broadcast music videos and the Beasties were in heavy rotation. Although I worked at an ‘alternative’ radio station in the early 90s where the Beastie Boys were on the air more often than not, I didn’t become a full-fledged fan until 1996 when the boys released ‘The In Sound From Way Out!’. It seemed to me that with this album of instrumental jazzy tunes, The Beastie Boys had matured and I could finally take them seriously as musicians. At that point I went back to their earlier releases and discovered I liked these guys and although ‘Ill Communication’ is great, I settled into ‘Check Your Head’ which became my favorite Beasties LP. I recall very clearly the release of ‘Hello Nasty’ because a co-worker of mine who was a big fan announced that the Boys were back to producing the sound that made them famous. I bought the album for my tween-aged daughter and rejoiced at the funky sounds and ingenious videos. The Beastie Boys didn’t seem to take themselves too seriously and being I had always been a fan of humor in music, these guys just fit right in to my musical tastes. I only saw The Beastie Boys live once. The venue: San Francisco’s famed Warfield Theater; the band performed an all instrumental show (except for a couple of encore tunes) and invited all comers to dress to the nines. My suit and tie matched those of the performers and they pumped out some jazzy jazzy sounds to my delight. I never knew the nicknames but I knew Adam Yauch was a Buddhist and a human rights activist. It seemed unlikely that three New York punk rockers were mature enough to care about global issues but because of Yauch’s efforts, awareness spread throughout youth culture. Adam Yauch died last week and although at my age I witness the loss of a great many musical heroes, this one struck a bit deeper since Adam and I share a birth generation. Rest in peace Mr. Yauch and thank you for making me smile while trying to make the world a better place.
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Curtis DeMartini (AKA CDMartini) is a native San Franciscan who stumbled into radio at famed FM station Live 105 garnishing an assistant producer title on the legendary ‘Alex Bennett Morning Show’. In 1993 Curtis moved to television, producing his own cable access show ‘Segue’ before Hollywood gigs on various HBO comedy specials as well as TV shows ‘Mr. Show with Bob & David’ and ‘Tenacious D’. Today CDMartini produces his own radio show ‘Strictly Hardly Vinyl’ which will soon be broadcasting from it’s new home FccFreeRadio.com and an accompanying blog –
http://strictlyhardlyvinyl.blogspot.com/
April 20, 2012
The year was 1983. 8th grade was upon me and my life was about to change. That year a girl named Cindy let me round third base. Up until Cindy, I hadn’t even been on the field of play. Back then she was what was called a “dirt”. They drank and smoked and wore bad ass denim jackets. I didn’t really know what I was but I knew I was closer to a “jock” then a “dirt.” I was lower middle class, I played football and track, didn’t smoke and hadn’t yet had that first sip of Mad Dog 20/20. “Dirts” scared me up until I saw “The Outsiders,” which had let me know then, under that hard exterior all “dirts” had that Pony Boy in ‘em.
I dunno why, but Cindy took an interest in me and let me know it. Our first sexual encounter occurred in Brian Chestnut’s basement where my first (and I mean — my first) make out session took place. Ginger haired, chubby cheeked Brian, whose parents didn’t give a fuck so we got to watch this new thing called MTV without parental supervision, Travis Cappelle and myself hung out that night. Back then, MTV had literally HOURS of entertainment in a day! Since Brian’s parents didn’t give said fuck what went on in the basement, we three friends found ourselves visited by Cindy and her two friends, Wendy and Rene. Brian was the richest of us, (if you didn’t figure that out from the name dropping of MTV) and his basement had this amazing plush wrap around couch. When the giggling cabal of soft skin entered, Cindy sat right next to me. On the very couch, just a year earlier, we three friends had played Star Wars with Brian’s figures (oh yeah, he had EVERY one – even the Millennium Falcon!). Not too long after Cindy’s thigh touched mine, her lips touched mine and I found myself having my first make out session — with a girl! As our tongues wrestled, I realized the year before, as Travis, Brian and I played Star Wars, I clutched a Boba Fett action figure and declared girls gross and having no purpose in life. But right then, with Cindy’s wet tongue dancing with mine, I was rethinking my position.
It was awesome! My lips got chapped but it was sooooo worth it!
I was now dating. Me, dating! My favorite place I took Cindy was the side of Butte Des Mortes’ middle school. We’d make out, my back to the bricks, pulling her in so her amble boobs where as close as possible. Oh, man, and one thing I have to bring up – Chick’s butts! Man! I don’t know how to explain it but back then, they were just better than now. Probably because all we had in 1983 were Levi’s. Red Tag, which I always thought was for rich kids and the cheaper Orange Tag for us not-so-rich kids. It took time and patience to work the stiffness out of jeans… there were none of these pre-wash, pre-stress shit the kids have today. Those jeans would mold to perfection on those perfectly shaped caramel, candy apple asses of the women of the 80’s. Still, to this day, the thought of making out while my hand’s cupped, squeezed and lifted a woman’s jean clad globes of heaven is the single most erotic/nostalgic/wonderful thought I can ever have.
Within a few weeks of dating, I reached second base with Cindy on the side of Brian’s garage one night. I think I picked there because I felt safe in the darkness of night to shadow my boner. Unfortunately, what I wore that night was my favorite pair of white, parachute pants and I probably should have just shined a spotlight on the boner and be done with the shame. Regardless, I had my first free hit of crack that night called boobs and I’ve been chasing THAT dragon ever since.
I’d like to say that third base was easily achieved. But I can’t. It was a process, and not because of what you might think. Cindy was not the problem, it was the fucking tight ass jeans I loved so much! Cindy and I found ourselves, yet again, on the side of the school. As I was “going for it,” I tentatively slide my right hand gently down betwixt Cindy and her jeans as we made out passionately. I got just pass my second knuckle over the top of her jeans when I got stopped. Again, not by Cindy but the fact my hand was stuck by the tightness of her jeans. And to let you know how tight they were – I even have small hands! I gave up that afternoon to regroup and try again at a later date.
My second attempt, after much thought and crude drawings of ideas, had me using what I had worked out was the next best course of action — I unbuttoned her jeans (button fly’s weren’t invented yet). This got me closer to the motherland, to the tantalizing feel of the top of Cindy’s laced panties… but then -stuck, again! Damn it. But today, I was not to be denied and in a fever of lust, I surmised that more ground could be covered if I unzipped her pants.
Before I continue, I need to bring up one thing. This whole time we were together, Cindy was a ready partner BUT she was also not an enabler. She never assisted with my endeavors, which I will point out was one of my pet peeves about her. She never did the one thing I really, really wanted her to do, which was to play grab ass with me like I was constantly doing to her. She kissed passionately enough, but for all of her our make out sessions her hands remained firmly planted in her jacket pockets, never to venture out and explore my body as I was exploring hers. Her hands remained an unwilling participant to the taut, firm, smooth country that was the former Shaun.
As I said, I unzipped her pants and knew I was there — at the source of all mystery and desire! Now, slightly less encumbered by the jail of her jeans, my fingers inchwormed past the lace and to the top of that glory that was her pubic hair. Sensing victory was soon at hand and feeling slightly scared at entering this undiscovered country, I soldiered on to the middle of what my mind’s eye had remembered in the very few pictures I had seen in a stolen Playboy book — that lovely Bermuda triangle of soft, velvety pubic hair where the prize was nestled… and I didn’t find it. My slight fear quickly grew as I padded (much like I do now when I have misplaced my glasses at night) in tiny increments to the right, then quicker padded back to the center and then to the left and realized — she had no Vagina!!!!!! Confused and scared I quickly stopped and told her I had to get home. I was disturbed and perplexed. When I got home I had the luck of running into someone I trusted. His name was John, he was a foster kid who lived next door. He was a high school senior and had never talked down to me, so when I saw him sitting on the front stoop, I sat down next to him and tried to figure out how to broach the subject of what just happened. There was no easy way of doing it, so I just kinda threw it out there. He laughed his ass off. I was so embarrassed I on the verge of storming off, which I think he could sense, so he stifled his laughter and told me how I was wrong. John told me that those few pictures that I had seen, must of had the woman sitting down, but that when they stand up, just like a Transformer transforming, it moves and rotates underneath. With a smirk on his face he informed me if I had just kept digging, I would have found it.
It was that weekend, on the side of the Menasha Goodwill (because that was where the traveling carnival always set up when it came into to town) that my finger struck Vagina oil! Pink gold! (Sorry, present me just watched a bunch of Beverly Hillbillies.) I’d like to say I was cool about it, but as I rode my bike back home with my friends I told them what happened and asked if they wanted to smell my finger. Man, I was a stupid, fucking insensitive kid.
I broke up with Cindy soon after, mainly because there was someone else I was interested in named Tracy. I had been a real shit about it. After college I found myself looking back more and more. I felt plagued by all the shitty things I had done and when my 10 year reunion came up I went mainly to make amends. I found Cindy and apologized for how shitty I had broken up with her. I remember she had this quizzical look on her face and she then smiled and kissed me on the cheek. Unlike me, she hadn’t probably thought of me in a long, long time. I guess the two things I can say about this are; when you’re thinking it’s all about you, it’s not. And vagina’s are like Transformers.
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Shaun Parker moved out to Los Angeles from Wisconsin at the tender age of 37. If you want to hear some of his story go to npr.org and search under “Shaun Parker” to find the two part story featuring him. Or find him here at: www.actorshaunparker.com.
March 13, 2012
I read a blog the other night about the most common regrets of the dying and I think it said there are five and since I’m not dying and I have oh so many more than five, I thought I’d better get to work. The first one that comes to mind is the need to forgive myself for the copious amounts of time I spent trying to hide inside a destructive relationship. In writing this article, I release myself of any further self-hatred over it, take full responsibility for My Part in it and check it off My Regret List.
And maybe, just maybe steer you off the same disastrous path.
I came out here in the nineties with a dream just like everyone else. No one warned me about the gripping homesickness that kept me up nights, or about the negative effects of trusting people, or about the bottomless pit of loneliness that can strike at any moment. So I looked for an outlet. Some people like drugs and booze. I liked Mean Guys.
What’s a Mean Guy? Well, I’m glad you asked. Mean Guys are reserved for Girls With Daddy Problems that don’t run to the Pimp or the Pole. Generally speaking – and I can because I have a lot of experience with them – Mean Guys are obviously good-looking, ooze sexual charm, are aggressive, cocky and only happy when they’re the center of attention. Note: They should not be confused with the dreamier Bad Boys a la The Outsiders. Sensitivity is the distinguishing factor between the two of which the Mean Guy has none and the Bad Boy carries a surplus as he wheels about town on his super-hot motorcycle.
Bad Boys will want to take you on a sunset drive to Griffith Park and smoke cigarettes while gazing into your magnificence and complementing your hair. God bless them. This is absolutely okay.
On the other hand, Mean Guys with good wardrobes and judgmental attitudes that want to troll Sunset Boulevard in their boss’s convertible Mercedes, however, are Douchebags and you should avoid this variety at all costs. The primary trait of any Mean Guy though is their uncanny ability to spot you anywhere, to zero in on your insecurity, and once they see it, even if it’s just a flicker in your eyes, they’ve got you.
I was easy to spot being the lighthouse of self-doubt that I was at the time. As soon as he found me, I went from Girl With Bright Future to Dumb Girl just like that. *snap of fingers*
Having just moved to Los Angeles, I clung to him like a flailing barnacle on a shark; petrified that at any minute he would shake hard and send me cartwheeling helplessly into deeper waters where I would come face to face with my embarrassment. Who wants to do that? I was a girl who just wanted to have fun. I wanted to go places and do things and that’s what we did.
To secure my place in his world, I decided I would be everything he could possibly want even if it meant making an utter fool out of myself. I would be loud and crazy and sexy and unpredictable and mysterious and desirous of wild passionate sex. I would, in essence, not be Me. I would be an ugly, sad, facsimile of a reflection of myself.
I lived in Los Feliz, hung out with a rowdy group of friends. I was the girl with the charismatic actor that everyone wanted to be around, the guy that eye-fucked everyone in the room while chugging a pint of whiskey. He made Nic Cage look like a cry-baby.
You might have seen us. I was the Doormat sitting on his right in a tightly packed circular booth in the uber-hip dive bar as he finger-fucked the blond to his left. I was the girl that scooped his drunk ass off the floor and made sure he made it home. I was the girl that always believed in him even when I found the nude pics of one of his classmates that he told me were for her boyfriend and she wanted his professional opinion. I was the girl that blindly attended his film school parties where he led a different life and no one knew I existed. I was the girl serving as the object of the other girls’ humor and ridicule at those same parties. And I was the girl still too afraid to leave him so no horror or humiliation was too great. As a result, I became paranoid and I learned to distrust myself.
Know this: You will never reckon with a greater force than yourself. Although I was trying desperately to obliterate my soul, it wouldn’t happen. I tried to leave again and he told me I was crazy and please don’t go… again. I ignored myself and I listened to him and I stayed. Again. But now I was suspicious ALL THE TIME. Now I was riddled with reality. I could not ignore it anymore.
Here’s the abridged version of the break-up(s).
One day it became overwhelmingly obvious that things weren’t so fun anymore. He would drink and forget what he’d done. He would suddenly have a new a girlfriend with no notice, and the times I did make the effort to leave, he would tell me I was overreacting. Instead of crying and fawning over him, I got mad. It happens.
I drove to his house one evening after work and as I walked down the driveway, I caught a glimpse through one of the windows leading into the den, that he was laying on his couch, his head in the lap of a female colleague from school, the one that had sent him nude pictures of herself. Outraged, I stormed in and began removing anything of mine, shoving trinkets and miscellaneous clothing into a bag. I shouted that his room smelled like sex and he told me it was me for fuck’s sake and no, I didn’t believe him. I didn’t believe anything anymore and I didn’t want to believe myself, but I would have to pretty soon.
He called me a few days later and I couldn’t stop crying and he came over to my apartment to talk. I sat on the front steps chain smoking and sobbing. I was a real mess. He felt so bad he said and maybe we shouldn’t do this break-up thing and he’s so sorry and you wanna go to Barney’s Beanery? I said yes. I was awash in relief of old patterns and oh good I don’t have to do-all-this right now. Maybe now he would see me, he would see how much I love him.
We were together for about another week when in the middle of sex one night, and I mean right in the middle of it, he stops and says with two tons of disgust that he just can’t do this anymore and I need to go. My face burned. My heart hurt and I wondered how much humiliation can one human handle as I got up and groped for my belongings in the dark. I thought I might throw up. I didn’t, but I couldn’t breathe. He lay in his bed smoking and I have never felt as ugly, cheap and, unloved in my life as I did right then. Everything I’d ever done wrong, every verbal bruise I’d ever received, every sexual mistake I’d made – and unfortunately there’d been countless many – surfaced and lay on my skin like impermeable oil, slick and foul and I just wanted to go home.
So I did. And I saw myself and I knew that it all happened because I didn’t love me. I allowed these things to happen. I put myself in harm’s way. I hurt myself by agreeing with his abuse of my affections and I admitted that I had a problem. Like so many addicts before me, I had to give up my drug of choice and I quit dating.
What was it Anais Nin said? “I stopped loving my father a long time ago. What remained was the slavery to a pattern.” My ability to choose a Good Man doesn’t exist and I’ve become okay with that. Besides, I find it far more enjoyable to love myself than to seek it out in someone else.
Now that you know how to spot them, I ask two things: First, I implore you to run in the opposite direction when you cross paths with one and never look him in the eye. Second, never judge another woman for dating a Mean Guy. She does a fine job of that on her own.
Consider yourself warned.
February 13, 2012
photo by Sharon Alagna Photography
I’m a size 16. Been this size most of my adult life. In high school I was a size 14 or, if my heart was broken that month, a size 12. I was born in this body, handed down to me by my paternal grandmother. And as I look at old photos of my grandmothers and great-grandmothers and great-great-grandmothers, we all have one thing in common — the same thick, round ass. This is our family’s legacy. It’s not much but I’m sure proud of it.
All my ancestors came from solid stock — farmer’s daughters from Ireland, Scotland, Wales, England via the Netherlands. If you needed a woman to tend to the animals, split firewood, haul stones for a cow pasture fence, birth babies and make sweet love to you in the darkness, that was us. As far as I know, my grandmothers’ ass size never held them back in life or from male attention. But that was back in the day of unflattering dresses and skirts that routinely disguised body parts. It was also a time when women made their own clothes. Deckers, we’re crafty ladies and I’m sure every piece of clothing was custom made custom to fit their ample bottoms. Luckily, I’ve inherited their craftiness but unluckily, not for the sewing arts. So I am forced to buy my clothes in regular department stores, which, as we all know (more…)
January 5, 2012
I’ve never been a big sister, genetically, at least. I grew up with a way older brother who was always trying to get me out of his room using gummy worms as a bribing mechanism. He would also put his mini surfboard under his bedroom doorknob to try to prevent me from actually turning it. Because we were years a part, he didn’t see me become an adolescent, tweenager, or teenager. In fact, we didn’t actually connect till I turned eighteen.
My brother and I grew up with the same mother, but way different fathers. Well, there were many similarities between our fathers, but our mother was the unifying force between us. And, although she provided for us in the best way possible as a single mother, my brother and I often felt like we were parenting our parent.
Our mother always sought our attention. It was her need to be needed that made my mother somewhat of a little sister to me. I don’t want to downgrade any of the parenting my mother actually did, because she was incredibly generous and always made sure my brother and I went to the best schools, had the best extra-curricular activities to attend, and the best clothes, food, and house to live in. To put it in perspective, my mother was not earning a lawyer’s salary and we were (more…)