The Teflon Septum

Charles liked to brag to us, in between his flagrant bouts of work avoidance, that he was a complete burnout because of the 70s and the disco scene in New York City back then. Of course, it didn't hurt his existential angst that he was also a complete asshole to the entire company, but that didn't seem to deflate his overwrought sense of self at all. I'd never met someone so arrogant with so little skill before, because I never saw him actually design anything. Nothing. Not one book cover. It was fascinating to me. Not that it stopped him from taking credit for other people's designs made under his "direction", which was such a fucking joke compared to our grueling schedules and after-hours work that we began a more honest and realistic process of each designer claiming credit for his or her own work. 

He never talked to me about books, computers, design, technology, or publishing, except if it was to order me to help him through another horrible crise, in staged scenes with tons of sighing and nasty looks made from his inert position behind his desk. Oh, and he liked my handsome new boyfriend Dave, so he thought up a way to take pictures of him by using a potential book cover design about Jewish people with us as the romantic couple in some test shots, but after just one cursory glance, the design was immediately killed because Dave and I are so obviously goyim, even in profile, just like his dip-shit test Polaroid of us taken in the office one afternoon. Before his budget was completely cut-off, though, he made me take the train to some far-out Brooklyn photographer's fancy brick studio in the middle of a work day for yet another test shoot. I was just happy to get the fuck out of the office for a little while.

He was also one of the most grossly incompetent people in power I'd ever worked with, which naturally led us to question his position of authority at the company. How? How the fuck had this even happened? The "higher-ups" at the house gave us a string of excuses, like he had a lot of work experience, and that he'd been bounced from every single work department we have in publishing, which didn't make us feel any better about him, especially because we were all working class kids busting ass in a too-expensive city not designed for us. It was like the city had become a gay stage set for rich white out-of-towners, which we clung to as more favorable than the nightmarish 70s and crack-fueled 80s. Of course, Charles had loved that time period the best!

He'd sweep through the office with his air of superiority, stopping by our desks only to share more of his greatness with us, like his rank of Buddhist priest (get the fuck out!), or his splitting headache that required pills from the nurse's office, or his clogged sinuses that were the result of poor drainage because of his, ahem, compromised nasal passages. Okay...whatever. It didn't take with me as even a casual recreational drug reference, because during my supposedly "hippie" days at O-Town that were greatly exaggerated by my much more productively "high" group of friends (I worked too much, went to classes, and got tired in the evenings or nursed bad hangovers from too much drink in secret), I actually got a real education.

So, Charles, had to gear up for another wittily dropped bon mot that seemed cool and casual, le tres chic. The next time he had a diva fit of "the vapors" in the office during actual work hours, waving around a gauzy, thin, brightly-colored hankie while dancing around to George Michael (hint, HINT), he dramatically paused by my studio desk to declare the same poor nasal passages with the clear sign of a finger held against the side of his nose. OH! You were..in the mob? That's what it used to mean here in the city. Tsk! Nooo, Marie. Sigh...I was so dreadfully dull and uncool to talk to. "I have a 'Teflon' septum!" Okay, wait a minute, are you telling me that you have an artificial bridge in your nose? The conversation only became more baffling to me with his continued explanations that he thought were so subtle.

Finally, he gave it up to me in a normal voice that was his alone, and not the affected soprano he usually trilled around us airily. "No! I had a deviated septum that I 'burned through' completely that had to be replaced." Jesus! I didn't realize allergies could be that bad! That actually happens...huh. No! Marie! His shoulder sagged as the hot pompous air deflated right the fuck out of him, only to be squared again while he quipped at me that "children" today were soooo ignorant. "I did a lot of 'coke" during the seventies!" Oh! Aha! I had inadvertently caused one of the biggest douchebags ever to work in publishing to declare loudly, out in the open, that he was a washed-up addict, right in front of a bunch of rabid designers who hated him with the passion of a thousand burning suns. My day was finally done.

Of course, the bitch that replaced him was even more insufferable, but at least we had our jobs and cover designs back. And one less "former" manager of "The Village People", but only during their really early days on the club scene, like wayyyy before their peak Studio 54 days, so if you look him up, you won't find him in the liner notes credited as their manager because he worked for free back then, just for the love of music. Sigh...he was so naive back then. Uh huh, of course not. Why would there be an actual documented work history for him to have that we could verify and see? We had all the ammo against him that we needed for his ousting, and that was before the hot pants-wearing gay boy messenger service became a regular thing for him. Thanks, Charles! You finally did me a real "solid". 

for Orlando, Florida - June 2016

Street Art: Disco Sucks

 

Slayer Rules in Rockland County, or at least it did.

When I was a young teen, there were two camps in the tri-state area: rockers and disco-loving Guido's. I actually love to dance to a strong beat, and I love the sound electric guitars make, so I didn't have tribal affiliations to either side. Nonetheless, the divide was deep. You were either a dance "fag" or a rocker, and kids were forced to choose sides in my house to avoid taunts. 

Ice cream, rock tees, boat rides, and family history

My brothers were (naturally) metal guys in their teens, sensitive to hints of "gayness", so it was a powerful card in my back pocket if they got out of line with me. If I wanted to get under their skin quickly, all I had to do was tune into to a "gay" disco station and turn it up. We had cheap doors with easy locks that could be turned with a thumbnail to open quickly, and that's exactly what they did if I dared to play offensive music; open my door and forcibly turn the dial on my old stereo I inherited from my godfather, complete with 8 track player.

I see Doucettes (live and dead) everywhere.

In retaliation, I had to do pathetically little. I loved their t-shirt collection (I still love mens' shirts) because their boxy square cuts went great over 80s clothes, like leggings and tight jeans, and I would often take their shirts out of their drawers to wear when they weren't around, which infuriated them. The one musical tradition we all agreed upon as siblings (and still do) is that the Stones rule. I mean it. We believe in The Rolling Stones the way a guido needs hair gel before leaving his house. Yeah, that badly. And we were right. They've withstood the hands of time to dominate the rock scene the way few other rock bands have, except for U2, another band I discovered foraging through record stores on trips to the city. I grabbed a single to their first hit "Gloria" because I knew I was hearing something powerful and raw, and I was right about that, too. I would go on to design CD's for musicians and bands in a post-production studio in Colorado, that's how good an ear I have for audio. I know quality when I hear it, and I know shit, too.

Acadians in Nova Scotia.

Rummaging through some photos on my mom's bookcase, I found photos of a story about my history that I tell sometimes to friends about how I wore a black and white-sleeved Stones concert shirt (which were all the rage back then) that my brothers outgrew on our history tour to Nova Scotia during the early 80s because we're Acadian (not my mom; too bad for her!). It was the first time I was there, and it was epic: just like one of my ancestors, I almost died on the boat ride there. It was a 8 hour trip across the Bay of Fundy from Maine, the roughest waters in the Atlantic. I threw up for most of it, and so did my mom, and so did many others because the bathrooms were outfitted with cots. I said to my mom "If this boat sinks, I won't even care", so bad was my mal de mer. My brothers sporadically threw up over the side of the ferry because my Canuck Dad (also ex-Navy) insisted that they would be fine on deck in the fresh air. At least I had some privacy in the ladies room.

Disco sucks and now you know, too.

These were some of the things I thought about when I saw rocker scratchitti in a bench in the local park, made years ago by boys not unlike the men in my family: tribally loyal, fierce, vulnerable, brave, rockers to the core, though now open to other music occasionally, two of them still playing guitars (both acoustic and electric) to rock music.  

 What do you see in your hometown that takes you back?

People of the streets, check this out: http://www.pinterest.com/mariedoucette/street-art-sacred-spaces/.

Greatest Hits

Growing up, my favorite flavors were R & B, Motown, with some disco thrown into the mix. The 70s dance craze raged through our household. My parents got dressed up to go dancing, looking so glamorous and grown-up, as they twirled around the living room doing The Hustle. Two of the more popular songs to their choreography were from the movies.

Nothing makes me feel more "disco" than the theme song from "Car Wash". It's a bumpin', fun, rowdy ride of a song. Listening to it takes me back to the joints that lined Manhattan's West Side Highway, along with the "Ladies of the Night" and the squeegee bums, who would foul up your cars' windshield with newspapers and dirty water, just to get some more money to repair their shoddy work. It was some scene. I still love going through car washes, too. Good memories.

Another record that played often was the soundtrack to "Thank God It's Friday!". The movie showcased the great talent of Donna Summer, the reigning Queen of Disco. What a voice! I loved her storyline, too: a shy star, making her first strides in the music scene, working towards her big break. 

She begs the DJ to spin for her, so she can sing to the track, but he turns her down because she's an unknown. Through some scheming, she finally gets her track to play over the club's system. She steps onto the stage, nervously warbling through her first notes, then gains strength as the she moves through the song. It's such a great scene, because we empathize with her wholeheartedly, rooting for her to make it. Aren't we all trying to find our rhythm? Don't let anyone break your stride.

(Skip to 5:15 in for Donna Summer's performance as Nicole)