I’m beginning to think/wonder more seriously about when I should start writing my book. It’s a really daunting task, and I’ve always just sort of loosely planned to start it around age 40. But really, 40 isn’t that far away, and if I don’t start making some better strides toward it, I might hit 40 and be like, “Ehh, I’ve got time,” and keep procrastinating until suddenly I’m dead and forgotten. Can’t have that.
I’m not really sure what angle I’m going to take for my story besides the groupie thing, because that’s really the only thing that sets me apart from other twentysomething, hard-partying, concertgoing girls in the big city. Don’t get me wrong–it’s the most important thing. It’s my identity. But it’s not like anybody really cares about most of the artists I hang out with, because (tragically, and at their own loss) they don’t even know they exist. It’s not the ’70s and I’m not jetsetting around the world with Mick Jagger. I’m hanging out with the coolest, most interesting and creative people you’ve never heard of. So, how can I make you care?
In the past year, for instance, I’ve done some really cool things. I was living in Long Beach, California, with my pet duck and my long-term, now ex-boyfriend, who I’d met while he was a member of my favorite band. I was in the original chapter of the Plastics Professional Groupies, and while I didn’t really like the direction the group had taken, it was cool to be a part of for awhile. I saw some great shows at all the famous clubs on the Sunset Strip.
Then my relationship ended, and I moved back home. Staying in the Chicago suburbs with my parents wasn’t an ideal situation, but I made more than the most of it. I practically lived on the Metra train, going back and forth from the city every day, partying my ass off with my crazy, exciting friends, new and old. I’d pack a bag and go to a concert, with no plans and nowhere to stay, and inevitably I’d end up hanging out with cool people in cool places. I slept around the rock scene, and I drank and drugged to my heart’s content.
It came to a screeching halt one May day with a voice mail from the man I’d never really managed to stop loving. He’d been through the worst–with the scars and short hair to prove it–and now he was back on his feet and wanted me in his life again. I was determined not to fall into his arms the moment I saw him, but that’s exactly what happened. All the time we were apart and hurting and not really even on great terms with each other just faded away and we were back together, back in love.
By this time I was working a great job, and I was able to get a huge studio/convertible on the Northwest Side. He moved in, and we’re building our life together on a basis of sex, ducks, and rock and roll. Coming home to him–especially when I hear his guitar through the window as I approach the building–gives me the warm fuzzies every single day. And Bunny’s laying eggs again.
Just because I’m in a settled down phase doesn’t mean my story is over, though. I can’t write it yet, because it hasn’t ended. Just a new chapter. I’m not getting any younger, but I’ve got so many exciting things ahead of me. Whether they’re as exciting to anyone else as they are to me, though, is what remains questionable. I guess the key is to become a good storyteller. Never a strength of mine, but it’s a skill I’ll have to learn.
I’m not out to change anybody’s life the way the vintage groupies’ books changed mine. That’s just silly. I just want the documentation, the record that I was here, and that I had a great time with great people.