The wayward wizards of Woodstock

The May morning emerges, cool and cloudy. Shopkeepers sweep the sidewalks in front of their humble but proudly run independent businesses, with names like "Not Fade Away" "Hip-e Living" and "Bingo". They sell to curious tourists, the NYC weary bankers, and well heeled locals who make up the freckled complexion of Tinker street in Woodstock, NY.

From alleys and darkened doorways emerge a group of men whose appearance makes even the jaded New Yorkers pause.They are relics of another time here, where lithe gypsy girls with dark eyes, long hair and Long Island accents roamed the streets along with busking musicians, face painted acid-test clowns and Ken Kesey devotees gathered in this artist's colony. Tuning in, turning on, and dropping out, they populated towns like this; Coos Bay, San Francisco, Austin, New Orleans and Las Vegas rolled into one giant traveling carnival show.The price of admission was a waft of patchouli oil, a peace sign or the sharing of hand rolled cigarettes which smelled of cloves, sandalwood and the promise of adventure.

Their stories are as diverse as their patched together blanket-costume-cloaks.Some went to Viet Nam and came back outcasts forever. Others came here as youngsters themselves, not sure of how one smoke filled dreamy day blended into another and than another until they walked into the harsh fluorescent light of a social services office, not certain what had happened to the years between then and now.

The rites of Spring

It's all about spring cleaning right now. Emotionally, physically, spiritually, the whole nine. Had a big sense of closure with my ex. Long story, but finally, after 8 long years of nursing a huge resentment, I was freed, It happened last summer, but I gave in to an emotional roller coaster ride of epic intensity. Contacted him ot of the blue and asked for an original copy of my get out of jail card. He responded with a letter which in short said he had made the biggest mistake of his life by "letting me go" (as if he had a choice?)that his life since 2000 had been a misery, his rebound-romance-doppleganger-bridezilla was a disaster (quelle surprise, non?) and would I like to come back to smog and silicone heaven to rekindle theflame. Truth be told, I lost the plot, my religion, and all sense of space and time from hearing this worn out cliche. It hit below the belt, no actually about 2 feet above the belt and I felt like I'd taken a punch from Ali himself. For a month we exchanged heated emails, 3 hour phone calls, tearful forgiveness and vengeful excess. A circle which led to exactly where we'd left off when I walked out with a suitcase 1/15/99. I got in the parting shot though, a deadly blow to his engorged and fragile ego. I got about 8 hours of satisfaction by exacting this revenge, and then had an emotional hang-over to rival my worst real puke-fest ever.

Fast forward 8 months. I had sent several letters of apology, none answered. Then another out of the blue moment. I remembered with eerie clarity his cell phone number. Post haste I rang it, five times in fact, and was cut off each time; then, a deliberate delete of 4 texts I hastily churned out. Suddenly angered at this childish BS, I wrote what I thought was a thoughtful letter, accepting responsibility for truly bad behavior last summer. Kicking a man when he's down isn't what I like to think as my signature-not as a happy and somewhat evolved grown woman, who has been in a healthy and truly blessed relationship for over 4 years. I genuinely wanted to forgive and be forgiven by someone I know is lost and still married to someone he claims to despise.

Well, the drama door was re-opened. I suppose I got what I asked for, a response. In my professional life I have dealt with some major double crossing, back stabbing, disingenuous sycophants. I've been blind copied on emails trashing me with a scalpel, and faced the writer, smiling and high fiving me as only a music business MF can do. I have never though been sent a message with as much bile and searing hate as I received from X yesterday. It stopped me in my tracks for a full 24 hours, as I obsessed and re-lived every lousy thing I had ever said or done to him. I tortured myself the way he tortured me for the 5 years of marital misery that we grimly endured. But then, something amazing happened. I felt tapped on the shoulder by the Universe itself, and I forgave him, I forgave me, and I forgave life for the messy unresolved pain of the past and present. I saw clearly the where, when and why's that had eluded me since the moment on our honeymoon when I realized I had made one mother of a mistake by marrying him.

I sat down and wrote from my heart. I'm not looking for anything in return. It doesn't matter if he loathes me forever. I like me today, and I truly know, maybe for the first time how it feels to regain your self-worth in regard to a particularly bad chapter in one's history. This drama is finally done.

Living with an unresolved relationship can be a labyrinth which is impossible to escape from. Or you can learn to live with the ghost in a neutral way. It may never be your fiend. But you can give the ghost a name, and greet it with a smile when it appears, saying "Hi Ghost, I know you're here, but you can't haunt me anymore, I am not afraid.

I did not edit this text, I let it come out in a natural way, guided by nothing but respect for the anonymity of all involved. I'm tired, but I'm in a peaceful place. After trying every remedy known to man, the alien that lived in ,my heart has been released for good. I never want to read this post again. I want to release it to a power greater than myself, and let it go.

The rest of my spring cleaning has much more humor and light. I'll save those words for tomorrow. I promised myself to get to sleep before 2 AM tonight, I have been awake for far too long, and a good night's sleep will complete this part of my spring cleaning.

Love and light to anyone who happens to stumble upon this post. The light is there even when it feels like you are whistling in the dark alone.

Carnage at The Virgin Megastore

March 26 was one of the saddest evenings I have had recently. I went to the “going away” party at the Virgin Megastore in Times Square. This was a private event, and the attendees were music business folk who had done business with the chain, and employees who worked, or had worked there over the years. I fall into both categories, having sold and marketed through them at one point in my career and having been their VP of Marketing for North America from 2000-20002. A lifetime ago.

I was invited by a colleague and friend, a man who is right hand to the great Richard Branson himself, and who came to America a few years back to, I presume, try and save the company from the carnage of the Music Business in The United States.

I was excited to see people I haven’t seen in a while, former colleagues as well. But the store, oh the store. As their Marketing go-to person I worked on the creation, design and execution of every endcap in every store during my 2 year stint. We spent big money on those artful and slick campaigns with a strict adherence to the brand’s irreverent, cheeky voice. I was proud every single month to walk into one of the stores and see how a campaign was doing.

On March 12 I was in Times Square for a meeting and some errands. I was shocked to see the store looking like a worn out bar girl. It was like visiting someone you know has a terminal illness, you know intellectually that they will not look the same. Yet nothing can prepare you for the moment of actually engaging your former friend or loved one, an emaciated, shell of who they once were. I was so taken back by the look of the store, the garish orange clearance signs on everything, that I didn’t have the heart in me to walk in and buy something on sale.

So there I am, a week later, forcing down cheery thoughts like a kid takes a spoon full of castor oil. As I got ready to go to the store I wondered if it would be a typical Virgin bash? Equal parts posh and debauchery with perhaps a bit of nostalgic humor nicked from an Irish wake. I hadn’t even called anyone to see if they were invited or going. I had said I’d be there, and I intended to show some respect to the institution which had been transformative for me. The atmosphere of the early evening had a cinematic quality to it. A gray, rainy end-of-winter day, colder than usual and by the time I got to Times Square, the sky was crying. Giant dirty tears bidding adieu to another monument of an industry in disarray.

There was a large line outside the store, by the look of it, all kids who’d worked behind the cash register or stocking shelves, anxious to get some free eats and a beer. The downstairs which used to be a cafe, looked like a construction site, midway through demolition. People were gathered in small huddles, holding their plastic cups. A band of employees played covers from the past, “Don’t Walk Away Rene” wafted up through the empty isles to the dusty cavern of the ceiling. I looked around the room, for familiar faces from labels and distribution. I knew no one. At the bar I chatted up a rep from ADA, a very sweet and thoughtful person who is still working hard every day with her indie accounts. She told me that the staff she is on had dwindled from 30 to 8 this year, yet she remains optimistic that her customers, her friends, would survive and regain their footing in the shakiest economy any of us has experienced. Eventually I met up with a few people I knew from the corporate office in LA. My former CEO who is now working with an online direct marketing concern, spoke with enthusiasm about the start up. Then I saw one of my all time favorite people, Andrew G. He had been the buyer for most of the indie labels, he was one of the few people who remained at headquarters, he’ll probably be the guy who turns out the lights on Wilshire Blvd. for the last time. Still as I scanned the dimly lit room, I saw none of the senior level people who used to regularly fly me around the country for parties and showcases. Not the one who used to get so drunk his head literally fell in his food more than once. Not the guy from that same company who left for powder room visits as many times as Lindz Lohan. What occurred to me then I knew when I worked at Virgin, that all of these high fivin MF’s were as disingenuous as they appeared and not one of them had the balls or the manners to at least make a show of respect for a company who helped them break artists and sell millions of records out of that very store. I walked up the broken escalator to the front exit, and as I did, I saw someone who has been a mentor and employer of mine more than once. He’s the President of one of the majors, and probably the only one who still plays his guitar with a passion and takes vacations surfing in El Salvador. It was a bittersweet moment, in an awkward evening. I guess for most of the weasels I was for so long it’s just too hard to share a real moment or give a damn about one of the last large “tastemaker” stores closing for good. That would mean they’d have to have a hard look in the mirror, figure out what a tweet is, and 10 years too late pull their collective heads out of the sand.

Goodbye Virgin-you treated me right.