To all of the creepy, porno-mall girls.

No, I'm not a spring chicken. Luckily, I've looked around.


My best years may have been 30 years ago. 
I remember how arrogant I was, too. 
The kind of arrogance that jumps on your back until the day you feel like you actually have something to be proud of.
 The kind of arrogance you wear like armor until the nicks of dead friends, bad health and dead end jobs chips away at it. 
It feels like it was 28 minutes ago.
It's going to happen to you, too.


I was the same as you, but with a difference.


I can hear the clock ticking. My time's running out. I'm quite aware that I'm closer to the end than the beginning. 
Has it been 30 years since we were there? 
My heroes are dead. But at least I had some. Keith Moon, John Belushi, Joe Strummer.
 Who do you have? 
Rihanna and Chris Brown as a spectator sport?
The Kardashians?
Good.
You're too stupid to get mine.


I don't have any family, but when I did, we'd communicate at the Italian Sunday dinner table, not Facebook.
How's your box set of The Sopranos treating you?


Mornings where I'd head off to school repeating my mantra "Money, butts, brush, pen. money, brush, butts, pen. money, butts brush, pen. "
All the worldly possessions I'd need to get through the day. 
No credit cards, no cell phones. No Fios, FB or fake tits for graduation. 
Just my portable tape deck. 
I was armed with the 1st Clash album on cassette, their words and chords were powerful,  acting like vitamins, making me stronger and more fortified. All that stupid arrogance.
Can you get that from "Boom Boom Pow?"
Rushing past my grandmother, as if I had somewhere to really be, I'd catch her tidying up after her breakfast of one cup of Lipton tea and one english muffin with a faint amount of Imperial margarine and some orange marmalade. 
She heads into the basement to iron her tablecloths. 
She uses Niagra spray starch and refuses to compromise on this point. 
She secretly defines what I think it means to be a lady and why I'm so grateful to Martha Stewart for keeping that idiotic household ADD alive. 
Because I know how important that stuff is now. 
Do you know that you have to nurture a man? 
You do!
You know why? 
Because you do. 


Yeah, I was you. I had a concave stomach and beautiful tits.
Just like you.
However, when I was you, I dissected newspapers and books, magazines. I read Henry Miller and listened to Patti Smith.
 I smoked to look more like the European. 
I thought there was poetry in addiction. 
Foreign film wasn't kryptonite, I sought it out.
I studied politics, looked up to Diana Nyad and listened to
 Wanted: Richard Pryor till I knew where all the pops in the vinyl divided his bits into sub-segments.
I devoured books on photography.
I painted and cooked, sewed and sang. I would spend hours on end paging through the booklet that came with the album, Quadrophenia. I would listen to Pete belt out "I'm one" 
I couldn't breathe. It was a song that I didn't want to hear, I NEEDED to hear. 
It let me walk with my head high. 
How's that Lady Gaga working for you? Getting your creepy on? You really are!!
Hey, answer a question...Oh, you can't because you have no opinions on anything but threading and extensions.


Even when I was you, I knew it took more than just showing up. You really need to get your hands dirty if you want to keep a memory strong.

In 1978 I was fifteen. 

My friend Liz and I were so excited for "Aerosmith: live Bootleg" but we only had enough money for one copy. It was a double album, so we took one disc each, for three days each. It was an amazing six days. I can listen to those songs now and smell the air in the room, thick with our adrenaline. It was enough. 

Do you know what that feels like? 


When I was you, I stayed at the Chelsea. $29


How's that Spa day at the Sheraton Crossroads leaving its mark on your Amex?
Get a free shower cap? 
Good.

Summers in Montauk, cbgb's in the fall and Patti talks to me about Keith Moon's death. With eye contact and everything. I drank blackberry brandy and planned to kill hotel rooms in tribute to Keith, which I lovingly obliged




Chiller Theatre and a night of the wet index finger in the back of the car. It was enough. One finger inside could make your head spin and get you through 5 days in school without ever getting bored once.


Those days weren't going to last. I wish I knew that, then. 


As my body destroys itself, and my friends, lovers and tits drop like bowling pins, I get wittier. 
And wearier. 
Good.
To all of you vapid, creepy porno mall girls, stop pitying me. 
You may have the iphone and youtube but @ 17 I had the Clash at Bond's, I lit John Belushi's cigarette at the first Blues Brothers show and and experiences with my friends that are still so vivid you could slice them up and serve them for dinner. I win. 


And that's why I'm happy to be older than you.


So, you may want to take my advice. Make sure there's another reason for  guy to send you a message. 
You know, besides "r u up? Wanna c me L8tr??"
It could only lead to mouthwash.
It just doesn't matter in the long haul if things are going in your mouth but nothing of worth is coming out. 
Examine what you love and know why you love it. 
FORM AN OPINION! LOOK UP FROM YOUR PHONES!!! GET OFF YOUR KNEES AND GET TO A LIBRARY!!!! COMBINE COITUS WITH CULTURE. IT'LL WORK FOR YOU!
You can still be a cock-worshiping pain in the ass. 
But stop the Pseudo-dyke performance horse shit. 
It only works if you mean it and if you don't, it's just annoying to be around when it's over. Especially if the Black Eyed Peas were playing in the backround when you asked "Can I use your computer for a sec? I gotta check my fb. Ugh.


Remember the old joke...
You don't pay a prostitute to fuck you, you pay her to leave.