Axl Rose and Me

The story of how a 50-year-old Axl Rose brought back my mojo one steamy night in the Meadowlands

We have a lot in common, Axl and I.
We both were once wild and sexy and full of potential...
and now we are both chubby and wistful, but powerful,
reaching out to reclaim what we abandoned.

Ok, so maybe we are nothing alike--
he was an internationally known rock musician,
for years,
while I was simply a writer on the cusp of success,
for a moment.
But I think we both handled it poorly
and I think we've both aged,
and bulked up a bit in our midsections,
our faces puffy and blurring out the beauty that may have once existed.
And I know that I felt alive in a way I haven't for so long,
alive like the fireworks exploding over the stage
as he wailed into the microphone,
alive with the muscle memory of
how
fucking
badass
I once was.

I stood there, hedged in by rows of flimsy folding chairs,
trying not to dwell on the fact that we paid as much as a pair of plane tickets
to be 20 yards from the stage
or the fact that despite the solidity of the Dansko construction,
they were still heels, so I felt an intense desire to chop off my own feet.
But when “Mr. Brownstone” charged through the amplifiers
filling the stadium and my every pore,
nothing mattered but how loudly I could scream.
I let him welcome me to the jungle as visions of power and beauty filled the stage of my mind:
I felt the old me surge to life,
emerging from a dusty corner on atrophied and forgotten muscles.
I felt like somehow he had opened a door for me
a door leading me down a path I've been too afraid to search for,
the path toward the life I forgot to create.

And when the lights came up on Axl sitting at the piano,
playing us in on the opening of Layla,
I thought I'd slipped through the fabric of space-time
and had landed in an alternate reality,
one in which I'd continued writing, and was vibrant and confident, fierce.
I blinked as he transitioned to “Patience,”
still sitting at the piano, his face a blend of serenity and satisfaction.
He looked so comfortable with his fingers on the keys, like he belonged there,
like maybe he was still a little boy taking piano lessons with a prim old lady down the street; that maybe his life had been full of joy and peace instead of drugs and disappointment.

Through it all, I kept marveling that he was there.
That his voice was the voice I'd rocked out with for decades...
He was still the same, even though his sexy elvish face was hard to detect;
he still had the gift that drew him into the vortex of fame. 
And maybe,
even I could find my way back to the fire in me,faded sexiness be damned.

10 Years Gone

Every year, I spend some time thinking of the loss this day once brought to my family.

I try to  make time for a screening of The Big Lebowski, and a glass of Hefeweizen.

I always touch base with his daughter's mother.

Maybe some day soon, I will share some of these posts with his daughter; she's 15 now.

These are the posts I wrote in the aftermath of that horrific night...

and not one of them captures the pain of it all.

Sunday, August 13, 2006

Loss for words

I'm still in the denial phase, I guess.

The police came to my door last night and told me that my brother-in-law had been killed.

The one who's been living at my house for the past year.

I haven't slept much, nor stopped crying much, but as always I felt the need to put something into words.

I keep seeing his smiling face and everytime I do, I shake my head a little--

cuz it's NOT true.

It can't be, it shouldn't be.

I will not be around much for a few days, obviously.

I am ok.

But he shouldn't be gone. He just shouldn't.

He was here.

I heard him come in and thought fleetingly of going upstairs to chit-chat a bit;

my usual thought.

But, I didn't.

No, I won't beat myself up with the "what if"s, but jesus.

Another fantastic "what if" concerns the police themselves.

He had been riding his bullet bike fast, up and down our small street and there had been complaints called in by a neighbor or neighbors (we're assuming).

They were on the scene one minute from when they were dispatched, so they were obviously already on their way.

So...what if they had made it there sooner?

He would have had a ticket, possibly an arrest for mouthing off or something stupid like that.

No helmet.

There are 5 brothers where there were 6.

There are people who don't know yet; friends of his that we don't know how to contact without his cell phone, which is at the Medical Examiner's office with him.

So we all sat up last night planning things and his poor mother is such a Mormon and he was just not, but we are all making sure he gets his wishes.

She wants to cut his hair.

We will not let that happen, and she will as always, refuse to accept that her wishes are not the only ones in existence.

She is doing well, though.

If I don't believe it, will it be untrue?

yeah. I know it won't.

Monday, August 14, 2006

How do I begin?

First, thank you all so much for your kind words.

It means so much to me.

I just need to pour out some of my thoughts, so please, please don't feel like you have to comment; grief is awkward for those around the griever and I understand that very well myself.

I guess I'm putting some thoughts here because I feel like you should know more about what happened and who he was.

First of all, he always wore a helmet.

He also knew how to handle a bike better than anyone.

He pulled that thing out of skids a bunch of times.

I was writing a post when I heard him come into the house, and I sort of assumed he was still here.

When the doorbell rang, 15 or 20 minutes later I assumed it was my husband returning from a client site and he'd forgotten his keys or something.

Before I reached the door I realized that was a stupid thought.

There were 4 uniformed officers standing there and I knew it was something bad.

My thoughts leapt to the stupid things G. could have done.

He has a concealed weapons permit and my thoughts jumped there.

They asked if my husband was home.

They then asked my relationship to G.

They again insisted that they needed to speak to my husband, and I said, "Oh no...What did he (G) do?"

They said, "He passed away."

The previous interactions had been like lapping little waves and that was a tsunami.

So unexpected, so wrong.

Then they came in and we sat down and they told me a little bit about it and gave me a card and collected information about other immediate family.

They didn't do the greatest job.

They need a better set of questions.

They never asked how many brothers he had, and whether they should send an officer to tell his ex-wife (as it turns out, they should have; she thought the phone call was a practical joke), and hesitated over sending one to his mother because she lives so far away.

Um, DUH, fuckers, you can call one of the cops in HER town and send him.

Hello??

I was coherant enough to come up with that suggestion, but I feel bad I didn't think of telling them to send someone to his ex-wife.

When they told her, they said he had had an accident on his bike, and she said, "ok, which hospital is he at?"

When they told her that he was dead she said, "oh, then you must have the wrong guy. He wouldn't have crashed his motorcycle."

And she truly beleived what she was saying.

The cop insisted that it was him and it was then that she joined the rest of us in hysterical crying.

Super.

That was when she explained how great he was on his bike--I never knew that he was that good.

So what the fuck happened?

Anyway.

I had to personally tell 3 of the 5 brothers.

And his girlfriend--

the girlfriend he told all of us he had broken up with a year ago.

The girlfriend I knew he was still seeing.

The girlfriend who...is such a fragile creature that I can't stop worrying about her.

My husband didn't get it; no one did.

But I had to find her.

She didn't know yet and I couldn't let her see it on the news.

We had no way of reaching her Saturday night, but yesterday I went to her parent's house and took her mother with me to tell her (I didn't know where she lived or have a phone number).

That.

Was probably the worst thing I've ever had to do.

She needed him more than any of us can comprehend.

I can't think about it right now.

I'm going to go down later and take her into the funeral home so she can see him.

She's not family so they won't let her in...it's so unfair.

So.

As for what happened.

I guess he was racing up and down the street, without his helmet.

So very uncharacteristic of him.

He was popping little wheelies, and just showing off or something.

He lost control and flew from the bike, into a tree.

A tiny fucking tree, like 4 inches thick.

That tree is coming DOWN, by the way. That goddamned tree.

It was the only thing he could have hit and he did.

A few inches to the side and we'd have a whole different story.

He was a big man, 6' 8".

How can he not be indestructible?

So. He died on impact.

I hate that the news story plays up the fact that he was speeding and not wearing a helmet--

I know those things caused his death, but that's not who he was.

He wasn't that guy who plows through life without regard to others (or of his own safety).

He was so considerate, so aware of other people.

He was aware of how hard my husband's constant business travel was on me; he was so kind to me.

We never talked about it or anything, but the softness in his voice, the compassion when he said, "Cameron's gone again? Wow..."

I should have

--ah, but that list could go on forever and it's pointless, anyway.

I know that he felt loved here, I know that he felt peaceful being part of our family and that is worth a lot now.

We gave him stability.

He wasn't home a lot, but we always had some good conversations when he was.

And I am so, so glad I got the chance to know him.

It's so weird. I go from being matter-of-fact and telling the story to feeling it and just sobbing again.

I didn't know this brother very well before he moved in here a year ago.

With 5 of them, I am closer to some and less so to others.

He had the reputation of sort of being the Asshole--

an ego as tall as he was.

He was Mr. Always-Right.

But he had begun to soften over the past few years and people closer to him had always said he had a soft core.

They were right.

He was an amazing father and a good person.

He really was smarter than most people, which is where the ego came from.

He was taller than most, too.

Got a basketball scholarship, so he obviously excelled there.

My kids were as curious as ever when I told them about what happened, full of a million questions.

They don't quite get it, but that's ok.

I had mentioned reincarnation to them a few days ago (as I tried to counteract mother-in-law's Mormon Resurrection speech...ugh) and so one of them said, "Maybe he'll come back as a bird." The other chimed in, "Yeah, if you see the giantest bird, it's him."

(oops. I kind of posted that mid-thought. J was here with french pastries--sorry, she wins the prize for best friend! Oh, and wine...I forgot the wine. That was more of a thank-you present for watching her dog, though.)

I guess I was nearly done.

I could go on and on.

I have been talking and crying non-stop since it happened, so the healing process feels like it's on target.

My eyes are still very puffy, and I keep forgetting to eat,

and I have to keep busy or I just cry.

There was something else I wanted to say about him, though.

I can't remember it right now.

I keep thinking he's just not here right now and then I remember.

Jesus.

Oh, I remembered the thing I was going to say!

Yes, saying "Jesus" reminded me, actually.

He was staunchly opposed to organized religion, and had often said, "If God himself showed up and told me the Mormons were right, I would still not believe it."

So.

As a person who hasn't lost someone since she herself was a staunch mormon...

it is interesting to wonder what he's experiencing right now.

I still firmly believe in an after-life, and I know he at least recognized it as a possibility.

I found myself, in the first hours after the accident, with this sense of excitement or anticipation--

I don't know quite how to describe it, but I was feeling eager for him to see what's on the other side.

Sounds kooooky, I know.

But I know he was curious, and I know he was skeptical.

But I also know that he was pleasantly surprised.

I better go round up the kids and feed them.

Just because I'm not hungry doesn't mean they aren't, right?

Again, thank you for all your virtual hugs.

I really am sorry for making you feel my sadness no matter how briefly.

But I guess that's how friendship works...we share each other's highs and lows, don't we?

Well.

I'll call ya when it's time to get high.

I mean...be high?

heh.

August 16, 2006

So last night one of the brothers left his Audi here,

and he always lets me drive his cars, so I took it when I ran out to get Arby's at 10.

(I had realized that I hadn't eaten any meals and very few snacks all day, so it was time.)

La la la, fun to drive a different car, etc.

And then I gave it some gas and the pedal stuck to the floor.

It freaked me the hell out at first because I didn't know what was happening.

Fortunately, the brakes still worked and I made it to the side of the road and put the car in Park and turned it off.

I was only out of control for probably 10 seconds (it sped up, I braked, then let off the brakes and it sped up again, so I braked again and got off the road), but it was enough to shake me up.

So that was pretty sweet.

Before that I had a cool chat with a convenience store clerk as she rang up my husband's cigarettes.

There was a rainstorm starting and she commented on it.

I mentioned how much I love watching the lightening with my kids and she agreed.

Then she told me about her uncle who has been hit 3 times!

Crazy.

I have things I should be doing, so I think I'll end this.

Just wanted to pop in and let you all know I'm doing a bit better.

Viewing tomorrow night, funeral Friday.

Ack.

Thank you all again for being here with me.

The obituary's at harktheherald.com, if anyone's interested.

Saturday, August 19, 2006

today I feel oddly at peace.

I don't know if it's because funerals really do offer closure,

or if it's because I am so tired that nothing seems real, let alone the thing I don't want to think about anymore.

I would say I've grieved well.

But this new feeling is odd.

It's like he's still here, just somewhere else right now.

The shock has worn off; I'm accustomed to this new and ugly information which has settled in the folds of my brain, rather stubbornly.

I cried so often and so hard that I guess maybe I'm out of tears for a while.

I'm not trying to get ahead of myself, but I have pretty tangible hope that my life will wend its way back to a pattern of normalcy soon.

The service was perfect.

Each brother spoke for a few minutes.

The oldest went first and was amazing.

I want a copy of his speech.

He is like his mother and I--a lover of words, both writing and reading.

I made a CD to play as background music during the one hour viewing before the service....

I carefully selected some of the somber tunes from among his favorite heavy metal CDs.

No Leaf Clover-Metallica

Mama Said-Metallica

Silent Lucidity-Queensryche

When the Children Cry--White Snake (or Lion?) because it was a song his daughter loved to listen to with him. She calls it "The guitar song" because of the opening.

Anyway...

I somehow included a Quiet Riot track!

The one that starts out, "Come on feel the noise! Girls rock your boys!"

jeeeeezus.

I felt like such an idiot.

The place was packed.

They had to add more seating and open an extra little room.

Beautiful speeches by everyone.

My husband even managed to restrain himself from chewing out the Assholes.

These are people who took the two boys just older than Cameron as foster children when they were in high school.

They have remained important to each other, but when Galen got divorced they took his wife's side and turned their backs on him.

It hurt him so much.

So...Cam thought he would bring that up.

Fortunately he mentioned it to me and I gently suggested that it would be more appropriate to speak to them privately.

Galen would have HATED for him to make a scene.

The mother in question attempted to give Cameron a hug during the viewing and he looked her in the eye and said, "No, I don't think so," but that's as far as he went.

Praise the jeebus.

I mean, hell.

I'd like to tear those pricks a couple of new assholes, too, but that wasn't the time or place.

Not only did they disown him because of the divorce, but they also were just plain asshats to my mother-in-law back in the foster care days.

They took all the credit for the successes of the two boys and treated her like dirt in general.

Fuckers.

And the interment was almost more than I could bear, but then everything sort of went into peaceful mode.

It was a gorgeous day and an absolutely stunning cemetery.

His little spot is behind a grassy knoll...that would make him chuckle...with gorgeous, huge trees around it--very private and with a view of the whole valley.

It is just above his high school and only a mile or so from where his daughter lives.

She will visit him often.

There are bunnies there, and squirrels, which I think will make her visits especially nice.

They just scamper around, cuz it's kind of tucked away in the foothills.

She is so precious.

Her mother is amazing with her.

I hope I never lose anyone this close to me again.

Well, since that's not possible, I'll just hope for it to be a really long time.

Friday, September 1, 2006

I am finally letting myself cry again...a little at a time.

It feels like months have passed since August 12, 10:30pm.

Not so.

Only 19 days.

That BareNakedLadies song reminds me of it...the way they count how long it's been since different things happened.

It's been 17 days since his room looked like his room.

It's been 13 days since they put him in the ground.

It's been 19 days since he sat on my couch and we discussed his friend's penis. hee...fairly large, so they say.

The crazy part is it really feels like he's still here.

It's been 4 hours since I told the kids to get the hell out of the bed of his truck.

It's been 10 hours since the sheriff's office called to tell us they won't be able to helps us find his other truck.

Big penis-friend has been driving it for a year or so and he hasn't been reachable since...19 days ago.

Saturday, September 9, 2006

I got home yesterday and the truck was not in the driveway.

I was slammed in the gut with a brief urge to puke, but it passed as soon as I realized hubby had probably just taken it for some cargo-related errand, but...

gah.

This morning we were watching VH1 Classic and Quiet Riot, "Cum on Feel the Noise" came on.

I didn't cry, but I was sucked into reminiscing about the funeral.

I guess I shouldn't be surprised that I am so emotional about this...

I'm a deep-feeler.

And it's strange but I really like crying.

It's when I think about him without feeling sad that I get freaked out.

I panic--"why doesn't it feel like he's gone?"

Oh, I also took the opportunity of a long drive last night to cry loudly.

Hadn't done that before.

It felt good to let out the barking sobs and suspiciously wail-like sounds.

And meanwhile I keep putting off sending an email to all the brothers to ask them for (content) contributions to the book I'm making.

Purple Rein

I'm obsessed with Prince right now. His untimely passing has brought him back into the forefront of my mind, and Facebook feed. His music surrounds me, and fills my mind, articles about him and videos of him are all I've been reading. I'm learning more about him than I ever bothered to know before, back when I still hoped for the chance to see him perform live. I'm in awe of his talent, especially when reminded of his size--5' 2" tall and every cell of the man was creativity incarnate. I heard that he usually played all the instruments on the recordings of his albums, which is astounding in and of itself. His huge voice, his huge spirit, packed into that tiny man. I read today that he had epilepsy, but I'd forgotten that. I don't think it was a much talked-about part of his life. I also keep hearing that he was a Jehovah's Witness, which seems jarringly impossible. How could he be part of such an uncelebratory religion when he was so full of celebration and sexuality? It doesn't jive. Maybe I'm jealous that he was able to keep his faith while expressing the depth of his artistic nature (which is not to say that I miss the restrictions and oppression of religion, but the division from my family has caused me pain). 

I remember the first time I really listened to Prince. I was a kid, probably six years old, in the oh-so-purple bedroom of my older, oh-so-cool cousins. Thick, deep forest of purple carpet, and matching purple and lavender bedspreads, and lavender walls all around. It was utterly perfect! On the tape player was Prince. The organ music played and, "Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today..." was intoned by an authoritative voice, and I felt like I was in church--but TV church, not my own congregation, which was so different from the churches on TV (the crosses, the stained glass, the glorious white-clad brides marching down flower-filled aisles were what NORMAL PEOPLE had, not us). It was obvious that this song was referencing something from this TV-style of church that I saw as the standard, like neighborhoods with sidewalks and matching architecture. My own life did not measure up to these standards: I lived on a dirt road in rural, coastal Maine, with my nearest neighbors my grandmother and my aunt and uncle (and their kids, the aforementioned cool cousins), whose houses had been built by the men who lived there. There were weeping willows and apple trees and wild berry patches, and creeks and honey pots; the closest place to go for candy was the vending machine at the tiny municipal airport a couple of miles by bicycle. We did not live in TV Land, and I felt like we were the only ones who didn't. So, there was Prince, in all his purple splendor, who would have been camouflaged by my cousins' room, speaking out from the tinny speaker, telling me that life is just a party and parties aren't meant to last, but that there is a party in the afterlife, and that we should just "go crazy." I take comfort in those words. This man meant a lot of things to a lot of people. Maybe to me, the most meaningful connection I had to him was the intersection of religion and freedom, of being different--but he owned it. He showed us all how it was done. He moved with grace and ease through a world that was not designed with him in mind--he was his own size, gender, race, religion...he was comfortable being himself, maybe. It's easy for me to say that with so much talent it must have been easier for him to find his confidence, but he had hurdles to clear that many people don't. I just can't let go of him yet. It seems like he should still be here, dancing and composing and being beautiful.

I wonder

There are so many ways to tell a story. Where does one begin?

I wonder if I'll ever actually write a book, or if my personal hell will be to start and stop and worry and wonder for so long that I just burn myself out? I feel like I need an audience (case in point: choosing to write here instead of in a silent, barren Word doc), and yet...I have no audience anymore. And no real will to conjure one. Probably I just need Valium or Xanax or lovely little bursts of beer. Something to untangle my bundles of nerves, something to melt the stress off the inside of my skin like candle wax......Not that there's not plenty to worry about, but just that I shouldn't. Instead, I should write. For no one, for anyone, for ME. It helps my brain to function properly when I put fingers to QWERTY and let them tap out the thoughts I can't seem to hold onto. I need a little less conversation and a little more action, but replace "little" with "hell of a lot" and we have a good start. I miss this. This...talking to myself. This stream-of-consciousness blurted onto the page. 

And so, I have stories to tell. Many, many, many of them. And I should be chronicling my life in some simple way--so that when I look back I have a story to follow, and I am reminded of nuances of my daily life that may have slipped my mind by then. I love the ten years-worth from teenagerhood through young adulthood that I do have, but I've missed the most important parts of my life--marriage, childbirth, divorce, remarriage, deaths, moving........I should have captured those things in real time. But I guess It's not too late. I can capture what I do remember. And maybe bring back some of my writerly skills and instincts. I need a mentor, a guide. Someone to encourage me and to provide focus for me. But, I guess I could just do that for myself :)