LIVE FROM NEW YORK: ERASE ERRATA @ MCCARRAN POOL

July 13th, 2007 |

SATURDAY, JULY 7

Honestly? Right now I have writers block. Why? Because I’m consumed with thoughts of fantasy and like. This week I spent a lot of time semi focused on one person/place or thing, lets just say it was a person. Which brings up the question of why do we focus so heavily on things we can’t possibly achieve? Or fantasize endlessly about the things we can but are too lazy to do anything about? And when did Live From New York become Sex in the City and when did I become Carrie Bradshaw? And somewhere tangled up in this mess are the things we are naturally attracted to or seek out for comfort, and that horrible book that Oprah keeps talking about, The Secret.

Yesterday over a delicious pizza with Brookie, we reminisced about how lonesome it was/can be when you move to New York. I had almost forgotten. But then all it once as I picked prociutto off my gooey slice it came rushing back; Sitting on my couch watching videos I’d checked out from the library, guzzling forty ounce’s of Miller High Life because I hadn’t found a pot dealer yet and making a disgusting mixture of Stovetop stuffing, a can of cranberry sauce I would dump into the always gelatinous ooze and brown gravy from a packet. Sometimes instead of High Life I drank cough syrup because that’s what Lester Bangs used to drink–before you judge me I was twenty-two and Let It Blurt had just been published–my roommates who I had met on Craigslist and had lived in the city their entire lives would come home from long days at school or work and find me crying, fucking my face with stuffing while watching Freddy Krueger decapitate Johnny Depp, wondering what kind of freak they had allowed to move in. Brooke laughed, instead of Stovetop and cranberry sauce she had instant mashed potatoes and corn niblets. The brown gravy we had in common.

But why is it when I am upset I slip instantly back into that debaucherous Sylvia Plath nighttime bridge jumper? Only to be pulled out by a pretty unavailable face? Except I’ve never met anyone as smart, gorgeous or interesting as Ted Hughes. Sorry guys. When I do though, you might as well divvy up my belongings and unplug the oven. Like, I totally get why you did it Sylvia. What, wow, where am I?

Oh yeah. The Secret is some people get lucky and other people don’t. People in America, we are lucky. People in Ethiopia, probably could give a shit about the Secret. The trick to visualization? Losing the bad attitude. The Secret is sixth grade basketball practice all over again; “Picture the ball going into the basket! Picture yourself making the basket!” The mandala of goals? Rehab. They stole that idea from rehabs all over the country. Don’t believe me? Let’s just say I don’t drink cough syrup anymore. Voila! That’s the Secret. Let’s move on America. I have a bad attitude, this is why I don’t make the basket, get the job or snag the hot boy. But America won’t move on. Why? Because we all want so much. So much crapola we don’t even deserve. I want to famous, I want to be skinny, I want to be rich, blah blah blah. From the girl who signs off “I’m Nikki Darling and You’re Not.” And you know what? Nicole Richie is pregnant and Paris Hilton went to Jail for twenty-three days.

So it was a million and one degrees in McCarran Pool and all I could think about was Chainlink Fence and his missing tooth. Mind you I’ve never met Chainlink, only spoken to him on the phone, but I was already in love. And you know what happened? Well, just something some people might argue is the real Secret, GOD! Like a lighthouse in a dark rocky ocean I heard Erase Errata. Not heard them, because everyone could hear them, they were playing really fucking loud, no I heard them. And it happened as people were starting to walk away. This confused me because last time I saw them everybody was psyched out of their brains to be watching them, but then I got it, half this crowd came because the show was free and there was a slip n slide. And then it dawned on me, Erase Errata doesn’t play pretty music–they don’t play girl music. They don’t have melodies or tambourines or even hooks like say, Elastica. They have one bass, one guitar, and one drum. And they challenge you to look at them and see them and like them. I like Erase Errata; I really love Erase Errata, because it is so easy to not like them. Erase Eratta I realized is about being female, for so long I wanted to make them just a good band, and they are, but they are women and they play fucking loud awesome aggressive music and they play it like their lives depend on it. Because in a way they do. Not as three members but as women. Fuck the Secret, fuck things you can’t have. You can have you and you know what, darlin’? You’re goddamn good enough.

After all, unlike popular belief, if you ever get stranded on a deserted island you won’t have Gilligan, The Skipper, Ginger and Marianne. You’ll only have you. Oh yeah, whatever it is, you’ll never get it either, because it never stays the same.

Reporting Live From New York,
I’m Nikki Darling and You’re Not.