Who’s the Man!

June 10th, 2010

My beau is more popular than me.  It doesn’t hurt me to admit it.  In fact it behooves me to say it like a mantra,  because that pain is superceded by the actual stepping stone routine I receive from those who have urgent and specific business with him.   Actually my chanting – “my man got the power, my man got the power” – has helped me to move on from pain to humour.  Funny how streamlined is that process as you become older and wiser.  Anyway, it’s a real study in subtext to have conversations with people on remote control, their eyes darting around in his general direction, feigning interest in my life and work.  Oh the rhapsodic choreography of said operator showing me his/her back in a glorious networkers’ square dance when my beautiful lover comes into close proximity.  Sometimes I’m lucky enough to finish a sentence.  My favourite asslickers are smooth about it though – possibly because I can almost believe in the authenticity of our exchange for a nano-second.  Even better are the ones who dangle goodies b4 me – and who am I to refuse, pets win prizes after all – and then lash out in lo-grade hysteria if I try to stake claim or when their silly fantasies don’t quite deliver according to Aaron Spelling standard. 

Pets win prizes!

Some of  these grownups in the biz have a strange habit of using talented people like talismen in their big realtime Rockstar showdown.  Incestuous doesn’t even scrape the scum off the top.   Soon enough they show me their true schizoid rainbow – charming to a fault in desired company, then derogatorily finishing my sentences with presupposed character assassinations, whilst shelling out whatever was on offer .  Earlier that evening I may have been Patti Smith, Karen Carpenter & Dusty Springfield in one composite rock goddess embodiment, but minutes later, with cash in hand I’m a junked up groupie prostitute and petty thief (throw in child molester and traitor, it’s only R&R)

Do I deserve this?  Perhaps it’s all projection, perhaps it’s just honour amongst thieves.  Maybe the true subtext is that everybody uses everybody.  Why, they’re just jockeying me in the same way that I must be riding on my partner’s coattails, right?  I should  just get down off my high horse, I’m no better than anyone else, yeah?…

I may not be better than anyone else – and frankly who wants to be – but I sure as shit don’t deserve to be blown up & shot down because of my boyfriend, who doesn’t deserve it either.  My poor long suffering beautiful  beau, what he must think of me.  I tell him everything – his very life, like anyone’s including mine, depends on it – and it pisses him right off.  Maybe some things are better left unsaid.  He thinks I’ve got paranoid delusions of inferiority.  Nothing could be further than the truth.  I’ve been writing, singing, playing, collaborating and schlepping for about 20 years now, with very little return, and it is only self belief that keeps me going.  Should I be beaten down by about now?  Well yeah – that’s what the greasy machine wants, and that’s why I will continue lopin up that hill, because this nasty system and its sad little helpers cannot win. 

Blow me down, it's Mary Read

Marketing 101 – to sell commodity one must downgrade consumers, attack us where we live – sexuality being the easiest target – so that we believe that we cannot live without said commodity and will thus use it to displace our battered self esteem.

Witness how it is ok to brutalise women in the form of cosmetic surgery so that an unrealistic, shaming standard is established and we think we need to buy firming cream – harder, faster, more SHINEY! – to be loved.  So that we may even be so deluded as to believe that if we spray ourselves with catpiss we might look like Victoria Beckham.  That Cheryl Cole is a women’s champion.  Witness the debacle of Jordan and her babymansized boobs – just the same proportion of Mommaboob to Babyhead as JordanJet to grownup PornoHound – agressively flogged to a generation actively denied the breast.  Satan’s wetdream and smackdown gavel to your downsized soul, Sucka! 

I will not stand by, while I have breath in my body, and allow pathological priority to reign.  Do we know the diff b/w things and people?  Corporations have human rights but I’ve no right be my natural self.  No, I’ve gotta carve up and pump myself full o toxins to be loved or at least hired.

Top o the World, Ma!

If this horseshit is considered acceptable, if not a benchmark of success, I consider my failed career a personal and spiritual triumph.  Yeah, OK, I AM better than anyone else – HA! – I will NOT unroll my shirtsleeves until this system is chopped up fine and fed to the carrion or until it kills me off – whichever comes 1st. 

“Use me up, if you think you can…” – Joan Osborne, Right Hand Man

So twas written, so it shall be done....


One Response to “Who’s the Man!”

  1. zoestreethowe on June 11, 2010 12:34 pm

    Believe me, Marianne, I know where you’re coming from. Many patronising, agenda-y types out there, it’s very boring. Took me a while to learn how to just rise above the frustration of being either completely passed over or treated like a (shudder) groupie. I remember on one occasion a well meaning berk said to me and Dyl: ‘He’d better not have any time off, where would the money come from?’ I was, at the time, the main breadwinner, by the way…
    So, I feel your pain, you’re not alone! xxx

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