My First...

My First Record

        Music is everything to me. If someone asked me what is the one thing I couldn't live without, it's music. Nothing makes me happier than to sing and dance, and there will always be a part of me that wishes I could have made my life all about music. Don't get me wrong, I think writing is what I'm supposed to do in life, and the truth is, singing and dancing on my own works just as well. It's a huge part of my life even though it's not my career. But still...music is my first love. 

        And that love has gotten so much bigger since learning to play the guitar, because I can now access music in a different way. I can accompany myself when singing my favorite Beatles songs, and even make my own. Although I will say, it's hard for a screenwriter to write songs. I am used to having 110 pages to tell the story. Gently, slowly unfolding, with subtext and nuances. In music, you get a couple of verses, a bridge and the chorus to tell your story. So it's all right there. Boom. Potent. Intimate. "I loved him. He didn't love me. And now I'm left crying." (Sounds like a country song actually. Maybe I'm just in the wrong genre?) 

                                            

        Back to my love for music. I wake up and roll out of bed and immediately turn on this Shamanic music which overnight guests find creepy. It's deep and dark and has a heartbeat-like bass line, but to me, it's the perfect thing to start the day with. Breathe, relax, have some tea, open the curtains and come to life.

        Once I'm awake, it's always the Beatles, although after a recent visit by my brother Ulrik, who does work in the music industry, I've found myself switching out Rubber Soul and Revolver for Swedish rap. I know. Weird. But it's fun to listen to overpriviledged Swedish kids rap about life, and it does keep me knee deep in Stockholm hipster language which I think will prove quite helpful when I go home, since I'm always teased for using 90's jargon around my family. 

    

        When I feel stressed and need to calm down I listen to Grizzly Bear. At work I listen to The Black Keys or Radiohead. A little Mumford. When I clean it's always to Stevie Wonder, because his music makes everything feel good. Even scrubbing and mopping. When I write, I have something instrumental on, otherwise I'll sing and dance instead of write. Then there are those special albums that come along and just change everything. You can't go for long without a listen, so they become your everything albums. You go to dinner with good friends and all you can think is, "how long before I can get back in my car and sing?"

        I'm obviously talking about Justin Timberlake's "The 20/20 Experience." And if you are rolling your eyes, you obviously haven't heard it. There's no other explanation. It's brought myself and Christie Hooks from Post more joy than anyone can experience in a lifetime. And a lot of office dance parties. In just under 10 days. So imagine what it can do for you. (Note: There is nothing I won't do for tickets to the JT/Jay-Z show.)

                                             

        So after this long introduction, on to my first record, which took some recognisance and research because my memory failed me. Which is a first. So the truth is, there doesn't seem to be one first record. I remember a few records in the beginning, but I don't remember which came first. I had the Sountrack to Grease (released 1979) which I loved because of the handsome Mr. Travolta on the cover, and his "why ay ay ay" in the song "Sandy." I also had the Soundtrack to Hair (1979) and knew all the words to every song even though I didn't understand what the words meant. Considering the somewhat adult lyrics and subject matter, my not knowing English was probably for the best.

        It wasn't all musicals though. I also had - or rather, my brother Ulrik had which gave me access to - the record "Tonarsdrommar" (teenage dreams) by the Swedish punk rock band Noice (1979 again.) They were just a few years older than we were, and still in school. They wrote about issues that teenagers have, and although I wasn't one yet, something about their angst touched me. Sadly, fame at such a young age changed their lives, and not for the better. After a couple of years, the music no longer had the same angst and they got into all sorts of addictions, which had two of the original band members die fairly young. 

        I will say that U2's "Out of Control" was the first time I remember feeling something really deeply about music. It came out in September of 1979 just like the albums above, so I was almost 9. I think I heard it at my Grandparent's house in Helsingborg. My Uncle Ulf is only 5 years older than I, so he was still living at home at that time, and was getting into U2. I think it was more my lingering around his bedroom door than him sitting me down and playing their songs for me. He wasn't all that interested in spending time with my brother and I back then.  

            I remember being an angry kid, and I remember hearing that they were angry, even though I didn't understand what they were singing about. I think my anger was about having divorced parents, a new step-dad, a fairly new brother, and living in Stockholm, which was far away from my Dad. I had finally started learning English that fall, but we were learning things like "Jill is skating. Bob is playing ice-hockey." (I guess winter words worked best for Swedish children.)

        So my brain wasn't equipped to deal with Bono's angry, politically charged lyrics, but they gave me solace and made me feel understood. I stuck with U2 for a long time because they were there for me when I needed them most. Seeing them live was almost like a religious experience, but then I had to brace myself for the post-concert blues that always followed. I'm still sticking with them even though these days, their lyrics aren't as potent and they seem to have lost most of that raw anger. I have too though, so I can't really complain. I guess I listen out of loyalty and to remember how I felt then. 

        To quote a Swedish band I've been listening to a lot lately, The Soundtrack of Our Lives, music really is. Every song has a memory, an era, a person connected to it. Music takes you back to happy times, sad times and in my case with U2, angry times. You hear the song and you're back there. It's like when I smell Fahrenheit on a stranger and follow them for blocks, gently sniffing without being too conspicuous, because all the cute boys wore Fahrenheit in the 80's. It still makes me crazy love sick. Instantly. 

Bjorn, me, Dalit and Benny

        ABBA reminds me of the "shows" my friend Dalit and I used put on in her living room; she was Annifrid (known in the US as "the dark-haired one") and I was Agneta ("the blonde one.") The Beatles remind me of my Mom, because that's what we would dance around to with her in the living room, U2 obviously reminds me of my Uncle Ulf and but also Richard Zamet, who serenaded me with songs from The Unforgettable Fire when we were teens in London. 

        

        When I hear Soft Cell's "Tainted Love," I start to do the dance combination my 5th grade friends and I choreographed to it. Pretty impressive considering that song doesn't lend itself to any kind of choreography. When I hear the Prince album "Sign of the Times," I think of that night my high school friends and I spent sleeping outside in a very cold Stockholm, to get tickets to see Prince live in concert.

        I learned how to roll joints with my friend Rowena Cokayne (yes, that's her last name, but no, she preferred weed) to David Bowie's "Space Oddity" in London in the 80's. I hiked up to Machu Pichu with Simon & Garfunkel. Not bad company at all. Bob Dylan makes me think of my brother Simon, who wasn't blessed with good pitch like the rest of us. But for obvious reasons, when he sings Bob Dylan, you almost can't tell.         

Bruuuuuce in Stockholm

        When I hear Springsteen's "Thunder Road," I'm back at my very first Bruce Springsteen concert at Staples Center. I had been told by my friend Ronny to listen to every Bruce album ever made to get ready, since I wasn't a huge fan at the time. I was feeling lost because I hadn't recognized any songs, when all of a sudden I heard just a few familiar chords and screamed at the top of my lungs, "IT'S THUNDER ROAD" like a crazy person. The rest is history. I've seen Bruce almost as many times now as I've seen U2. The highlight was in Stockholm on my birthday a few years ago. And we hung out with the E Street Band at the Grand Hotel after the show. 

                                                               

        I'd like to think my music taste is varied and sophisticated, but the truth is, there are some Britney songs I just can't help but love. And let's be honest, that's not sophisticated at all. I couldn't put myself in any one music box if I had to, although as my brother Ulrik said on a recent visit; "you always preferred the dark, depressing stuff..." I suppose I find depth and melancholy a bit more interesting than "happy fluffy music." 

        It would be easier to say what I don't like. I am not a fan of Country Music. Or Heavy Metal. And I guess I don't listen to a lot of Blues, Techno, New Age or Christian. And Easy Listening isn't at all to me. Jazz, I like some of the old stuff. Other than that, anything and everything goes, and by the way, I'm still catching up on all the American Music I missed out on by not growing up here. When I got here, I didn't know Crosby, Stills and Nash. Or Young for that matter.

        Thank god for my musically sophisticated friends who through the years have introduced me to the likes of Johnny Cash, Lou Reed, James Taylor, Janis Joplin, Tom Petty, Jefferson Airplane, Jimi Hendrix, Van Morrison (thank you, Joey) and many more. I can't remember who played Tupac for me, but god bless them. I would have been ok without The Beach Boys. Just saying.  

My First Wet Wednesday

        I had a feeling that would grab your attention. It certainly grabbed mine. It sounded really fun and a little dirty when my friend Karen suggested it, so I decided to tag along, being adventurous and open to the somewhat unclean. It felt like it was time to try something new and exciting, and it was definitely time to blog.     

The irritatingly insightful Mr. Mailer

        Friends have been asking why I haven't blogged in a while, and I've been saying I've been too busy, but the truth is I haven't been in the mood. I know. As Norman Mailer put it, "being a real writer means being able to do the work on a bad day." It's just that blogging connects me to my friends, family, acquaintances and to the world and lately I haven't wanted to connect. Sometimes when I'm working through something, I don't feel secure and grounded and connecting during those times makes me feel a bit too vulnerable. So I've been taking a break.

        Nothing devastating happened, I just saw the new year as an opportunity to start from zero, so I chose not to move all my regular activities, hobbies, projects, friends and even lingering romances over to 2013 without careful examination. I looked at where I didn't have power and freedom, I looked at where I wasn't experiencing love and affinity and joy, and I did all those things that everyone does to get clarity; yoga, meditation, even transformational workshops and astrological guidance. And after all of that, my first Wet Wednesday re-affirmed that I was indeed ready to re-enter the world and open my heart, which has been closed for maintenance for a bit.  

        But back to Wet Wednesdays before the suspense kills you. It's a dance class, although that doesn't feel like enough of a description for this extraordinary experience/phenomenon. 

        Perhaps if I tell you a bit about Ryan Heffington, who leads the class, you'll get a better sense. The feast of character that is Ryan Heffington, has a list of accomplishments so long and impressive that he is worthy of a googling. He is on the smallish side, with long curly hair tied in a bun on top of his head, and festive dance wear. Definitely an original. I wouldn't say he's my type in any way, yet there is something strangely sexy about him; his being/spirit/soul is beautiful, his passion and love for dancing beams out of him like the sun, and I've never seen anyone more free in their body. 

        I walked in not knowing what to expect, but was still pretty relaxed because I had been told people who go are cool and there's no judgment. At least not until I showed up. Actually, I'm not judgy either, but I do have a fondness for categorizing people and things, putting them into neat boxes so I know how to relate to them. This proved impossible in the Wet Wednesday crowd, so my brain went through some short circuiting before it quieted down. Which worked in my favor. Because there's nothing more refreshing than when I can't put people in boxes.  

       The class was a mixed bag. Some dancers in varying levels of expertise, some regular people there to get a good workout, but all pretty hip I would say from the colorful and interesting attire. Bright tights, over the shoulder sweatshirts and even some leg warmers. Which wasn't strange because The Sweat Spot, where the class is held, is located in Silverlake, which Forbes Magazine recenly named America's Best Hipster Neighborhood. (Before Williamsburg nonetheless, which I guess has become so hipster it negated it's own hipster factor.)

        Anyways, I felt a bit dull in my lululemon pants and matching tank top, which made sense because I have always struggled with the hipster identity that comes along with living on the east side, and always seen myself as plain. Maybe "classic" is a nicer word. Don't get me wrong, I love the east side, and it feels like home to me more than any other place I've lived in LA. And I want to wear vintage clothes, not wash my hair every day and just braid it six ways to Sunday, or do something else that's really artistic and interesting with my hair or face or body. But I can't because I end up looking ridiculous. Not sure if it's the Jewish part of me or the Swedish part of me, or if it's just that I grew up kind of preppy. 

        Are you exhausted yet? Welcome to my overactive and overanalytical mind. You now know why I needed this dance class. Well, it started. And it only took about five minutes for my face to develop a giant grin. Probably the biggest grin I've had in months. There was a warm up sequence with funky music and as my feet moved around, it just made me burst out laughing. When I looked over at Ashley, who I had dragged along, she was doing the same. Just laughing. But that good kind of laughing. Not laughing at anyone or anything, not because something is ridiculous, but laughing because life is short and there's so much fun to be had. And when you find something that lets you get out of your head for a bit, and makes you feel free, you feel deliriously happy. 

        So there we were, making grand arm gestures, jumping around and doing sassy dance moves across the room without a care in the world. We were laughing so hard we started crying and I think that's when Karen ran over to us exclaiming, "Yes! You get it!" I can't imagine anyone not getting it. Who doesn't want to prance around without any concerns to cool music? And it's a fantastic workout. 

        That was the first part. Then came the second part. Or the hard part. Or the part that made me feel crappy about myself. But that has more to do with the pressure I put on myself to be successful in EVERY endeavor than the actual dance class. There was some steps to learn. And when I say some steps, that's an understatement. It was a very tricky dance combination that many people picked up quickly and some were a bit slower to get. I was in the latter group. Which, if I think of it in hindsight made perfect sense because it was MY FIRST TIME. 

        But there, in the moment, I felt defeated and my brain saw an opportunity to start picking on me.  "I can't believe you're not getting this...you should be able to do it...after all those dance classes?" I tried my best to argue back, "That was jazz...in the 80's in Sweden...c'mon...leave me alone...be quiet and let me focus." My internal dialogue didn't make following along easier, but that's when Mr. Heffington decided to crank up the volume and it got so loud, I couldn't hear myself think. Thank god. 

        I did my best. I got some moves down and managed to look somewhat cool while doing them. Others not so much, so I got a bit frustrated and impatient with myself. But all in all it was ok. Great even.  To learn to be gentle and kind and patient with myself is one of the things I have to work out in this life time. And that's not going to happen if I only participate in activities I'm already great at. After all, it took me a whole month to nail the "Flashdance...What a Feeling" dance sequence all those years ago, so maybe give myself a few more Wet Wednesdays?

        At the end when the class was winding down with some cooling down stretches, I felt happy and proud and once again, looked over at Ashley who beamed right back at me with such joy. Then all of a sudden a stretch turned into a movement that looked like everyone was sprinkling fairy dust on themselves. So I did too. And that feeling of pure bliss came back. I really loved my first Wet Wednesday and it won't be my last...it's very addicting...

My First Ride on the LA Metro

    

        I have this friend, Assaf, who is always beyond appalled when an LA landmark or east side hipster place comes up in conversation, and I haven't been there. So when he suggested we take the Metro to The Black Keys at Staples Center the other week, I wasn't going to tell him I'd never ridden the Metro. But then I realized that he might be reading this blog, (against all odds, because he's beyond opinionated about blogs too,) so I fessed up that it would be my virgin journey to eye rolls, huffs, puffs and the usual "What's the matter with you?" 

        I actually love public transportation and I always take trains, buses and subways when I travel, but for some reason I've never tried the Metro in LA. I had a lot of assumptions about it, most of which turned out to be untrue. "It doesn't go anywhere I want to go," "there's not a station anywhere near me," and "only weird and creepy people take the Metro in LA" to mention just a few. Turns out it's pretty convenient if you are going to a show at Staples Center, and there's a station within walking distance from my apartment. 

How many Israelis does it take to buy a TAP card?

        You get a TAP card, which is like an Oyster card for those of us who ride the Underground in London. And you fill it up and tap it and go. Pretty easy, although Assaf struggled a bit to get his out. (Pun intended). And for whatever reason it only worked once, so I got in by doing one of those cool jumps over the steel bar that you see in the movies, when there's a chase through a New York street and the killer all of a sudden runs into a subway station. Assaf thought it was overly showy, since there was an open gate to walk through, but my flair for drama and being cool got the best of me. Planking we call it in Swedish. Getting in somewhere without paying. 

        The ride itself was like any other Metro Ride in any other city I suppose, and lucky for me I got to be right about something - that weird creepy people ride the Metro - when a toothless guy in a wheelchair offered his complete set of rules for how to make a marriage work. As if he had read my mind, he proudly held his hand up, and sure enough, there was a shiny wedding band on his ring finger. "Four years" he exclaimed excitedly, so I figured I should listen to perhaps finally understand what I should have done differently, but alas, there was no new information or special magic trick he knew of that shed light on my marriage failures. Although I did like Number 6, and decided to try it out at least once before I die. "Let the man be right once a month."  

        Before we got to Staples Center, we had sausages at Wurstküche, which was also a first! People who know me well know that my passion for sausages (hot dogs) knows no bounds, especially in conjunction with sporting or music events. I will proudly mention that my record for most hot dogs eaten in 15 minutes is four Dodger Dogs, which I think is pretty impressive for someone of my size. I could obviously never do that at a Laker game, their wieners are way too big.

Not a first. Not because I've had these before, but because I don't ever want to. 

          So obviously, this was the perfect thing to do before the show and Wurstküche's sausage selection was different than anything I had ever seen; buffalo, duck, bunny rabbit, alligator and rattle snake, to mention a few of their exotic flavors. I played it safe, ordering a smoked chicken & turkey dog with sun dried tomato & mozzarella. Having worked up a bit of an appetite drinking beer, I enthusiastically sunk my teeth into the sausage, which was loaded with sauerkraut and some other delicious things that I can't remember, but that ultimately contributed to the party taking place in my mouth. A few days later, I had the pleasure of recounting my delicious experience to Tyler, one of the owners of Wurstküche, at a friend's birthday party. He seemed genuinely humbled by my enthusiasm. 

        Next up. Staples Center for The Black Keys. The third first of the night as I had never seen them live before. We had good seats courtesy of friend and co-worker Shana Stein, who after purchasing her tickets, had been upgraded to fancy seats and backstage visits by and with some very influential friends. 

        The Black Keys are really really awesome. I love their music. And they looked cool and sang all the good songs. A great time was had, I enjoyed it all thoroughly; drinking beer, singing and dancing. But, I will say - because I'm spoiled when it comes to concerts, having seen some of the most incredible artists in the world play arenas both here and in Europe - that because it's mostly just the two of them on stage, and they don't put on a crazy big show with a lot of cool visuals, or have a stage presence that reaches 20,000 people...that perhaps a smaller, more intimate venue might be a better fit for them. So there was that. But again...great night. 

        It was cool to not have to find a car, and try to get it out of a packed parking lot after the show, but to just be able to walk to the subway. And plank again. It reminded me of taking the subway to see shows at the Globe Arena in Stockholm growing up. The difference being that on nights that there are shows at the Globe, they have a train coming every minute, so that you don't have to wait. In LA, not so much. We waited a loooong time. And it was hot and clammy and full of hipsters. I've never seen so many women in high waisted short-shorts and heels, and hope I never have to again. 

        All in all, a great night of firsts. Three to be exact. תודה רבה, Assaf.  

My First Heartbreak

        I love heartbreaks. I know. Sounds crazy. It wasn't always that way, but after navigating through quite a few, the experience has not just settled with me, but also settled me. There's something beautiful that happens when I have my heart broken. Or, as a result of it. I feel raw and open and my whole being wakes up. Not that I'm subdued, or on auto pilot other times, it's more like my life is set up and organized to follow a certain path, on which there are both highs and lows...but then, when there is a heart disturbance, it's like someone slammed their breaks right in front of me without warning. I get jarred out of my space and need a time out. I nurture myself a bit more than usual, and that's always good. And by the way, my heart hurts almost just as much when I break up with someone as when they end things. 

        I suppose one could say I'm good at heartbreak. I'm good at taking a disappointment in love and turning it into an opportunity to feel and think and communicate and grow. Like making lemonade. I love love, and tend to jump in with no hesitation, like jumping out of a plane. I love to explore and connect and play and see what happens. I love feelings. The whole wide range. Happiness, sadness, fear, anxiety, joy, pride, and even anger. So I love living on the edge of my heart. It riles me up. It makes life interesting, and surprising, and full. Makes me feel alive and vibrating. Sometimes I have the most extraordiary trysts, relationships, flings, affairs, and heart connections. 

        And, sometimes it all blows up in my face, and usually because I've ignored warnings from concerned and supportive friends. They can hear the ticking, but I'm not done until I SAY SO. And then it happens. BOOM! The funny part is, I'm always so shocked, like I didn't see it coming. After the initial blast, I gently down shift my gears and get to work. Regroup. Think. Investigate. Reach out to friends. Communicate. It's never about reaching a conclusion or getting a question answered, but instead about dwelling in that beautiful place of vulnerability, trying to distinguish the ego bruise from the heart bruise, and finally, after enough has been said, getting to the final piece.

        The golden nugget. The reward of the whole experience; a better understanding of myself and my heart. That part always happens with friends, and I'm fortunate to have collected some of the most insightful, supportive and loving friends through the years. Friends who can hear it in my voice when I call, and quickly tell me I am super hot and desirable, take me to the movies, or get me drunk on mojitos. Or, friends who can hear it energetically, and check in on their own, bathing me in sweetness and love, until I'm happily drunk on that. 

        After that I usually tweak my "what I want" list. Sometimes it's completely shallow, like I decide "he" has to be taller, or not have an accent for things to work. Sometimes it's something simple but important, like "he" tells me I'm beautiful. Sometimes it's more serious, like "he" should probably not be addicted to a substance or that really kinky behavior. 

        My new favorite is the "two-hour heartbreak," a phrase recently coined by a beautiful friend during a very funny conversation. It's when someone tells you it's over, and you get surprised, because you didn't realize you were going out in the first place. And your heart gets a bit bruised but it's really mostly ego, not actual heart. How you know you're having a two-hour heartbreak is, two hours later, you can't remember what you were so upset about.  

        I didn't always see the opportunity in heartbreaks. They used to mess me up for months and months. The first really big one happened a few months after I had arrived in LA, so I was about 22. His name was Tony and he was my age. I hesitate to write too much about him because he had a somewhat difficult life before we met, and it feels a little strange for me to air all that out. I bring it up only because it explains some of the more destructive behavior that happened later. What I will say is, Tony was the first in a long slew of beautifully troubled men that have made their way into my heart.

        Tony was creative and artistic and hilariously funny. Handsome and manly, with a body that was quite addictive. We met at something Jewish, he wore a red shirt, and I couldn't stop staring or desiring or crushing, or whatever it's called when you meet someone and you know. You know there is a mutual "like" or attraction, and not much needs else to be said. There is an understanding that at some point in the near future, alone time will be had, and most likely spent staring, talking, exploring and connecting. So we did.

        We became an item quickly and spent quite a bit of time together. He lived in a guest house in West LA but had a studio where he worked on his art, just down the street from Santa Monica College. He took me to the shooting range on one of our first dates, and the kissing afterwords was explosive. (Pun intended.) He introduced me to the TV show "Kung Fu," and I introduced him to Swedish pancakes. I found him fascinating, especially the broken part, and wanted so much to heal him, fix him, and  just love him up. So I did. For a while.

        I became aware of some of the darker parts of his personality, and some vices too, but it was such a slow and gradual process, that it occurred like just a few little things here and there. Had I added them all up, I would have understood that this was probably not going to end lovingly and amicably. But I was blinded by love I suppose. And 22. And newly arrived in the United States. 

        I think this was before cell phones. Because I remember calling him at home and leaving a message on his machine, confirming our plans. I was supposed to come over to watch a movie. I didn't hear back, so I tried again a half-hour later, and this time he picked up. He sounded really strange and I got worried. I asked if everything was alright and he was cold and rude. And in hindsight, clearly on something. I drove over because I was worried, like a good Swedish, innocent girl. 

        Tony didn't answer the door, although I could hear he was home. I can't remember if I waited there, and how long, but I remember that there was another car parked behind his, so it was clear he had company. I drove home and probably had some sense of what was coming. It came the next day. He called me and told me that his friend so-and-so had been over and given him head, like it was no big deal. BOOM. I had no idea what to do or what to say, but it was clear to me this relationship was over, and I remember losing my breath for a moment, and then getting that panicked feeling. It spread all over my body.

        I wanted to scream but I couldn't. I felt death and panic and devastation inside, and in fact, like I wanted to die. I knew I couldn't handle this and death seemed like an easier, more viable option. My heart was pounding, I was breathing faster, I needed help, I was nauseous, I was losing my mind, terrible thoughts were going through my head, and I was clear that my life was over. Thinking back to this time is hard even now. I remember not being able to go to school for a couple of days. I remember not being able to eat, or sleep, or get a full sentence out without bursting into tears. 

         I remember being nurtured, taken care of, nursed and comforted by my room mate Rachel Kramer. She was an angel, although I suspect she had seen the writing on the wall, as she had known Tony a bit longer than I had. I laid on the floral couch in the living room of the apartment we shared on Stanley Avenue, and cried for what seemed like months.

        It didn't take me long to find my break-up album. Because every heartbreak has an album connected to it, at least for me, and certainly during this time, before iPod shuffles, Pandora and XM Radio. Sade's "Love Deluxe" had just come out, and I spent my days crying while listening to her soulful voice and fitting lyrics. It seems a bit cliche like now, but then, I really felt like every word was true for my experience with Tony, and written for me. And like a Pavlovian dog, whenever I hear any of the songs from this album, I think of Tony and the floral couch which soaked up so many of my tears.

I gave you all the love I got 
I gave you more than I could give 
I gave you love 
I gave you all that I have inside 
And you took my love 
You took my love

        At some point, life got easier, as it does with heartbreak. I slowly got my appetite back, and my ability to sleep returned, although there were panic attacks sprinkled into my existence about this for months to come. A while later, after things had settled, Tony and I tried again, but it wasn't the same. My innocence was gone, my sweet adoration and respect for Tony had dimished almost completely, and all that was left was sadness. The sadness you feel when you try to re-create an experience that isn't available to you anymore, simply because you know better. I wanted to feel the same delirious exhilaration when we kissed, but I didn't. And that was perhaps the best thing that could have happened, as it helped me move on completely. 

My First Hangover

        We had been planning it for almost a week. The getting drunk part, not the hangover. I don't even think I knew what a hangover was, but supposedly getting drunk was fun so that's what we were going for. I'm not sure exactly who was in and who was out, but I was around 15 or so, which means the girls were most likely one or more of the stellar group of girls I hung out with in junior high school - Tessan, Lulle, Missan, Åsa BT, Tendai and Åsa Karlsson.

Missan and her brother

        Tessan was the super happy one, who loved to sing and dance, Lulle was more advanced than any of us and already smoked and had boyfriends, Missan was who I was the closest with, as we ended up in the same class in both junior high school and high school. Åsa BT and Tendai were inseparable and Åsa Karlsson lived in the row of houses right behind me. 

        There was a dance at the school's after hours youth center, which I think was called "Ringen," ("The Ring") and I had already gotten into an argument with my parents over what bus to take home. The dance was over at midnight, so naturally I wanted to take the 12:20am bus, so I could be there for when the lights went up, and walk to the bus stop with everyone else that lived where I lived. My parents insisted on the 11:50pm bus, which would have me miss the end-of-night excitment, having to leave the dance early. The issue was resolved when I sneakily obtained permission to sleep over at Missan's, who of course had a much later curfew. 

"Witch Mix"

        My parents had a cabinet well stocked with alcohol at all times, which was perfect as the most popular - and clearly most idiotic - beverage at this time was called "witch mix." Witch mix was basically when you took a bunch of different alcoholic beverages and mixed them in a smaller bottle. It was easy enough to take just a little bit from each bottle in the cabinet without fearing discovery, and I knew better then to add water to any of the bottles. 

        There was no soda, juice or water added, just a mix of hard liqor, which sounds completely disgusting, but back then, in the eighties, it wasn't about enjoying the taste, it was about reaching teenage intoxication, three years before we were legally allowed to drink. I don't know who's bright idea it was to smuggle the alcohol into the dance, as opposed to drinking it beforehand, but somehow I ended up with the actual carrying of it into the dance. Bags were searched, so I had wrapped the bottle in tissue, then in a shoe box that I covered in gift wrap and a bow.

        Once we got to the front of the line, the doorman searched my back pack and naturally found the "package." He asked what it was, and I replied that it was a birthday present for one of our friends inside. He commented on its heavy weight and asked me what was inside, to which I replied "a clock radio," adding, "our friend is always late for school." Satisfied with our response, or perhaps just amused by the sheer idiocy, and gusto it took to concoct such a bizarre story, we were let in with our bottle of witch mix. 

        We headed straight for the bathroom where a few of us took turns drinking the mix in a tiny stall. Not surprising, it was not delicious at all. I mean, who in their right mind drinks a mix of rum, Campari, vodka and whiskey straight up like that? Obviously, we got drunk pretty quickly and I remember feeling like I was on a boat, because everything moved all around me even though I was completely still. I don't remember much more, like if any of us had any fun, if we danced and socialized, or if we were just all nauseous and sat around. 

        At some point, towards the end of the dance, we must have sobered up enough to walk to Missan's house, where her older brother showed up, delighted to hear about our drunken adventure. He was a few years older, so legally drunk, and definitely enjoying our somewhat confusing evening. I remember waking up the next day, not sure what had happened to the inside of my mouth, my head or my stomach, but feeling cool and accomplished.

        Missan's parents, who were supercool and laid back, often enlivened by alcohol themselves, seemed to understand what had taken place the night before, but didn't make a big fuss about it. Her mom made us breakfast, and her brother insisted milk would solve everything, and poured us tall glasses of it, which we gulped down quickly. Then Missan walked me to the bus, and we re-capped the adventures of the night before while giggling.

        I threw up on the walk from the bus stop to my house, proving that the Swedish "Milk Cures Hangovers" theory and myth of the 80's had some flaws. Turns out milk doesn't magically take away the alcohol in your stomach, it just makes you throw it all up. Not a problem for me, as it ultimately made me feel well enough to face my non-suspecting parents and tell them all about the "fun" night at the dance...

 

 

My First Concert

                

    When I started to write this blog, I had no idea which concert was the first one. There were three concerts from the eighties that stood out in my memory, Sting's "Dream of the Blue Turtles" tour, George Michael's "Faith" tour, and last but certainly not least, Prince's "Sign☮ the Times" tour.

    I dug around in my memory box and found the corresponding "concert scarves." Yep, I was one of those people who got the scarves. Held them up during the concert and wore them proudly afterwords. And thought to myself "one day these are going to be worth something." The George Michael scarf said 1988, so he was out. (Bad pun not intended but taken nonetheless.) I googled all three and found that George played Stockholm in 1988, Prince in 1987, and Sting in 1985.

    So, my first concert was Sting at Isstadion in Stockholm, on November 22nd in 1985. This is so funny to me, because I was about to turn 15, and I would have thought I was more hip than that. Don't get me wrong, Sting is great. I'm a huge fan of The Police, and although "The Dream of the Blue Turtles" has "If You Love Someone, Set Them Free," it's not exactly what a supercool 14-year-old listened to in the eighties, or was it?

    I remember everything about that Prince concert, including spending the night outside Isstadion in the freezing cold to get tickets, and almost making it up on stage to dance with Prince. The music stopped just as Jerome Benton reached his hand down to pull me up. I also remember how dreamy George Michael was when he played "Faith," of course wearing the jacket from the video. But Sting. Hmm. 

       

Isstadion 1955, during the conversion in 1961, and today next to the Globe

    The concert took place at Isstadion (meaning 'ice stadium') which has a bit of an interesting history itself. Built as an outdoor arena for ice-hockey, it opened in 1955, and was converted to an indoor arena in 1962, so that the stadium could host both ice-hockey and concerts without concern for the weather. Isstadion was Stockholm's biggest arena (holds 8,300 at concerts) until 1989, when Globen ('the globe') was built right next to it, completely eclipsing it and everything else around. In 2002 it was renovated and now has smaller concerts and ice-hockey again. 

The Beatles played there in 1964 for about a dollar

    But back to Sting and "The Dream Of The Blue Turtles," which was named for a dream he had. About blue turtles incidentally. I'm now listening to it. To remember something. Anything. Did I sing? Did I dance? And who did I go with? I think I went with a boy from my high school, Calle Colliander but I'm not sure, and I can't find him on Facebook to check. 

    I googled the set list, and it looks like it was a pretty good night. 

1. Shadows in the Rain
2. Driven to Tears
3. Consider Me Gone
4. Children's Crusade
5. One World
6. Love is the Seventh Wave
7. We Work The Black Seam
8. Bring On The Night
9. When the World is Running Down, You Make the Best of What's Still Around
10. Moon Over Bourbon Street
11. Fortress Around Your Heart
12. Low Life
13. I Burn For You
14. If You Love Someone Set Them Free

Encore 1: Roxanne, Russians, Tea in The Sahara, Walking on the Moon, Every Breath You Take. 

Encore 2: The Dream Of The Blue Turtles, Demolition Man

Encore 3: Message in a Bottle

    I suppose I should apologize for not remembering enough to make this a super interesting and worthy "First" blog entry. I would have love to have written about how CRAZY Sting was on stage, how drunk we were, how absolutely hard core the audience was, jumping up and down, maybe even say something about all the shit that happened in the "mosh pit," but somehow, I doubt there was one. 

     What I will say is that going to this concert obviously struck some sort of chord with me, as I became an avid concert goer, first in Sweden, and now here. I stopped buying the scarves after my second Prince show at Isstadion in 1988, the "Lovesexy" tour, however, I have saved most of my ticket stubs, some of which you can see above.

    I LOVE going to concerts. When I go to concerts, my whole being is elevated. I'm on my feet, singing and dancing whether it's the Red Hot Chili Peppers, Paul Simon, Van Morrison, Bob Dylan, Paul McCartney, Tom Petty, or even The Police, whose reunion tour I went to a few years ago.

     
My Trinity

    But, the artists/band I've seen the most is Prince, U2 and Bruce Springsteen. Because seeing them in concert is not just entertaining and uplifting, but it's a soulful, religious, heart opening experience, with full-on, sad days of withdrawal afterwords. For them I've driven to Anaheim, San Diego, San Francisco and flown to New York. For them I would go to the end of the world.