After being rendered inutile by the rough and tumble of the last few months, with its cosmic and physical shifts, plus the toils of the everyday, for which I considered myself blessed to have survived through with most of my dignity and my ideals still intact, I was percolating to give my karma a major revamp. Or perhaps on some plain my karma didn't need the makeover. I just needed to rev it up by taking back something I've never really taken full possession of for a hefty while-- ME.
So with a chunk of a year's worth of my life still in boxes- feng shui crammed into my hapless new closet, I set to make a vortex of nothing but good vibrations. The warzone that is called Transplant as always, has been my biggest, most unexpected solace from the chaos outside the ultramodern atriums of UMMC. Making like a character of Gray's Anatomy or ER is not difficult for the ample supply of young georgous specimens in scrubs. And the affection of friends, friends, friends coming out of the woodwork of the unit who call me their girl, their crazy girl but nevertheless their girl- their comrade-in-arms. In relation to that, but more importantly, to finally start feeling that I have gradually earned the respect of my colleagues and the doctors; to be made to feel that my opinion matters; to take part in some difficult yet important undertaking and actually contribute; to take pride out of one's work; AND for the longest time in this friggin' awful year, to finally start believing in myself. What a motherfuckin' year it has been!
You know what they say about all work no play. Determined not to crash and burn, my dear friend ZR, along with her son, and husband make our way to Towson. It wasn't exactly a beeline 'cause I went into the wrong exit at first but with brand spanking new bumpers for the new year, me and my car Ashe (my pet name for my Civic, as in Corbin of The Crow II and most times as in Kutcher 'cause who wouldn't want to ride him? Anyway,) managed to find our way after 14mile or so. ZR and I head straight to the salon and call for what is to me a leap of faith.
A dear friend once implored to me not to transmogrify my trademark long locks into J.Lo lightness fearing perhaps that the chemicals would affect my gray matter as bouncy hair is directly related to brain damage (borrowing from Daria). Long story short, I lopped it off and YES my dearest Shivaun, dyed it blonde. HAH!
Psyche. Nah, it's not that short but it's a long way from the small of my back. I just got sick of the length, the combing, the detangling, the me-love-you-long-time vibe long asian hair inadvertently puts across. It's back to some Angela Chase-like lenghts but retained some hippie-ish layers and rock n' roll shag. It's just highlights but it's the color of my gypsy tendencies and the call of the surfs of Bali and the all of the world's white sand beaches. It's just hair and it'll grow back but for now, shit! I FEEL DAMN GOOD!
So with my new locks, I marched off with my friend ZZ into the the chill Baltimore night to Ram's Head Live at the Powerplant in Market Street, to watch Have a Nice Gig, a battle of top local bands to be Bon Jovi's front act for their D.C. concert. THIS was upon invite of one by one of the bands, Fools and Horses. YES BITCHES, an invite. Dressed like a bar room wench/ dominatrix/Nebucchadnezar spy/supernerd in my black corset top and long black trench coat, ZZ and I weave our way past the college kids, the bands' moms (and some grandfathers) and their bourgoening hardcore fans dressed in allegiance to their camps, to the bar. Like a good designated chick driver I ordered non-alcoholic beers (bummer). We just people watched from our seats from the bar. ZZ points out that we just might be the only ones who do not have the words, school night and curfew floating over our heads.
I ponder for a moment, wether I am getting old for this, but then I have partied with models, superstars, celebs, MTV VJ's and drag queens in clubs, ballrooms, a chinese junk and the ubiquitous pinoy birthday parties, raved in the floors that have vibrated to the Chemical Brothers and Moby while UK undergrounders The Dub Pistols played. I have been a band's muse for the night at the Hard Rock Cafe as the whole establishment sang to me, Happy Birthday on my 24th. I have been to my first big rock concert, a girl alone armed only with her Pentax, sang Happy Birthday en masse to the lead guitars and waited at the backdoor as the band toasted us from the windows, only to find out a few month later Richard, the lead guitarist/prodigy had a nervous breakdown after we helped usher him into being 21 (not our fault, of course). All that, with the pictures to prove it, and I still excell in holding my liquor with minimum hangovers and nil morning-after nor nine-months-after regrets.
Feeling so wussified from all that non-alcohol, I managed to swindle from ZZ some of his real booze, then coolly shrugged off the early stages of a come-on from a jock in the intermediate stages of being shit-faced drunk. I was starting to be in my element.
My band played last. By that time, we were already perched on top of what I surmised as the VIP ledge. YES BITCHES, the VIP ledge. And by then I was already banging my head. Fools and Horses sounded like pros- surprising for a band so young and SOO easy to look at. There is already a certain intelligence to their catchy lyrics, a wink-wink humor to their act, and a polish and for every hook, riff, Converse stomp, and primal falsetto, an ease to their sound and its layers as they tip their tousled hair to every great rock 'n roll tradition that sublimely formed them . And did I mention they're all HOT? Plus,their bassist Kent has the most perfect blond bob I had ever seen on both man and woman.
Of course, they won hands down. I know my bands. And a good one if I hear them, BITCHES.
I came into Ram's Head, as the band had put it, their "newly befriended friend" and came out a fan. For fuck's sake you are never to old to rock 'n roll!!
Breathing in the 20-degree F air, we both realized we were hungry. We ducked into McDonald's like any self respecting club denizen. As I and ZZ, wolf our Spicy Chicken Sandwiches, we lay witness to the sight of underaged girls in flimsy embellished cotton-polyyester halters and gauchos risking frostbite and pneumonia to impress boys who don't know any better.
One blond girl puked her liquor and what-not through chattering teeth as her equally blond friends held her hair back. They ducked into McDo as well, but earned the ire of the eagle-eyed security guard when they put the vomiting blonde's high heels (her Mom's) on the table.
The cold wind whiffed into McDo as the disparaged blondes went out again to brave the elements. My mind drifted back to the girl who haunted the clubs of Singapore on her first taste of real independence, the same girl who had been sent into hibernation by life's little realities, mundanities, inanities and insanities. "Novices!" I mocked the blondes as ZZ and I laughed quitely . I smiled into my Diet Coke as I heard the voice of my club kid past, whisper "I'm back."
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