3-01-12 Survival Jobs for Writer-Musicians – Starter Job #58 (“Working Class Hero”)

What could have been a better plan: move to England, work on a solo album with Difford & Tillbrook, be recognized for my great passionate vocals and guitar playing -- and songwriting -- and be a best-selling recording artist? Then I’d fall in love with a dreamy Brit (who adored me, of course), make a ton of money hand-over-fist from my music and writing, buy a country cottage and a flat in the city, go on the road, get married, get dual citizenship in the U.S. & U.K., maybe have a family and a couple of animals as pets, maybe a pony, or maybe a cookie that looks like a pony. . . all in that order!

I confess, some of my dreams were very old-fashioned. . . and not many of them included a very ordinary or average life. I didn’t want to be a rock star; I wanted to the best at what I do and make a good living from music and writing. Not very lofty goals, eh? I just loved England and the whole funny/weird Brit sense of humor. I understood the class system and loved that the commonly held thought was that the U.S. has no class system (ha ha -- right, right).

What class does the artist rule? What class does the nonconformist, the entrepreneur, the lifelong creative belong to? Income may dictate “class” to some, but you can’t buy TRUE “class,” dig?? I’ve struggled against the economic confines of (upper-middle-lower) middle class my entire life. Or maybe now I’m working class -- because all I do is work for ridiculous low wages in survival jobs most of the time these days?

John Lennon’s “A working class hero is something to be. . . .” is one of the best scathing songs about society -- the truths cut like dull knives to the heart.

So I start out life, at age 25, in a foreign country where I thought I knew the language. I thought I knew how to read people, how to know if they were sincere or full of shit. I thought I knew how to take care of myself and say the right things at the right time.

Everything I thought I knew got turned onto its figurative ear within two months.

I got to Blackheath and Glenn’s old flat. He was moving to Greenwich (the next town over), to a flat in the same building as Chris and Cindy Difford. Until the lease ran out on his Blackheath flat, I was welcome to stay. I don’t recall if I paid rent, but as I went over with about $900 or the equivalent in pounds sterling (the exchange rate was around $2.00 to the pound), maybe about 400 pounds (or “quid”).

The first week I was there, I’d walk around the scenic little town, go to the greengrocer’s, buy those long French cucumbers called “courgettes,” buy nice bread & cheese etc. I’d cook eggs and toast, cheese and toast, and have that great PG Tips tea. Heaven! (I was a vegetarian then -- no meats, maybe some fish.) I walked out on the “heath” and thought about the thousands of dead bodies and souls from the black death (the bubonic plague), buried there. . .I went to the lovely old Anglican church there and sat still, praying for the past, present, and future.

Soon after arriving, I was invited out to “the pub” with the Squeeze guys a few times. The place we went was in Greenwich, and I can’t remember how I got back to Blackheath from there. But no matter! I ordered half pints of lager & lime (sissy drink -- but that’s me, not much of a beer drinker). I learned to say, “’Alf lager ‘n’ lime, please!” in my best non-American voice. I hated when people would say to me, “Oh, you’re from AMERica! Say something like the Mafia!! Say something like Brooklyn!”

Ugh. I was trying to escape from something all these Brits just seemed to love.

And weirdly enough, little by little, I started to realize that they didn’t behave like New Yorkers one little bit. . .

2-29-12 Survival Jobs for Writer-Musicians – Starter Job #57 (Grandma Ethel’s Role in My Moving to the U.K. for Keeps. . .)

Reminiscing on the kindness of my Grandma Ethel:

When I was a hapless 10-year-old, I broke my collarbone in several places as the result of rolling too-quickly downhill on a faulty skateboard (obviously!). My grandma sent me a get-well card and a little book called “Captain Kitty.” No matter I was ten years old, practically reading Proust, and the card and the book were probably for kids who were just starting to read. It was the thought that counted, and the kitty was SO cute.

Every thoughtful, she’d written on the back of the card: “… I received Holy Communion for you last Sunday & asked God to make you well soon and to spare you as much pain as possible – I hear you are getting very good care and are being a real good patient.” There were riddles in the card, silly ones like “Why is a half moon heavier than a full moon?” (A: because the full moon is lighter.) or “What kind of bank has no money?” (A: a river bank.)

Grandma’s funny get well card concluded, “Try these riddles on your nurse or doctor or even your company. Lots of love from Grandma.” Ah, my grandmother, the card – who loved puns and cheery cards. Now I know where I got that trait!

Anyway, in order to pull off my big moving-to-London, England, scheme, in a carefully worded note (persuasive writing is my forte), I sweetly asked her to help fund my foreign travels. I didn't really think she'd agree, so the $500 check was a pleasant surprise indeed. At the time, it was like having $2 grand or so. It meant a lot and was very helpful to me. I paid it back – or meant to; can’t remember now. I don’t know if anybody else asked her for any help, monetarily. It’s not like I was her favorite or anything; in fact, I don't remember her ever seeming to favor any of her grandkids -- except for those darned Seattle cousins!

I was starting to pack up, reflect on where I was & where I was going. I learned some cool old country songs and was writing a lot of new songs on the piano and guitar. I sang them, too -- but playing piano was laborious for me at best. On my TEAC 4-track, I demoed a bunch of stuff that sounded pretty amateurish, but the harmony vocals were nice (I always do a good harmony or two) and the songs were as good as any others, really. I was on fire.

Seth, the young lead guitarist with Nervus Rex, joined me on electric guitar for a few sessions while I strummed away and sang, including a videotaped segment for a friend’s cable TV show. . . “Please Help Me, I’m Falling” was one of my favorite songs, along with “(S)He Thinks I Still Care.” Of course, I learned all the feisty Loretta Lynn and weepy Tammy Wynette songs, too. . . I was convinced I’d be part of the “New Country” wave out of London, England; be produced by Glenn Tillbrook and Chris Difford of Squeeze; triumph musically, financially, and romantically, in England.

Oh what rose-colored glasses that little gal wore -- with the Guild guitar and several big suitcases in tow -- on the Freddy Laker flight that August night in 1981. . .

2-28-12 Survival Jobs for Writer-Musicians – Starter Job #56 (“My Perfect Cousin(s)” role in my Preparing to move to the U.K. for Keeps. . .)

(this is my Grandma Ethel, a year or two before her death in 1984)

How did it come down to my asking a relative for a loan -- something I’d never do? Perhaps a quote from the New Testament had come back to me (I’d studied the Bible over the years on different occasions for different reasons). In the book of Matthew, that great quote Matthew 7:7-8: “Ask, and it shall be given you. . . and he that seeketh, findeth; and to him that knocketh it shall be opened.” How could you not love such amazing, consoling words?

Anyway, by the time I was grown up enough to care and inquire about her and her really interesting but possibly unglamorous life, Grandma Ethel in general didn’t have much to say, didn’t tend to reminisce out loud, just kept more and more to herself. It really was rare to have a conversation with her, and she never seemed to mind, oddly enough.

One of the high points to her life was when she’d visit our cousins in Seattle, Washington, from time to time in the sixties and seventies. Grandma would return from trips out west with our “perfect” Von Der Linn cousins, simply raving about what nice, well-behaved children they were. The implication being, in my head, why can’t YOU, Barbara’s kids, be good like THEM? We definitely resented those Seattle cousins, thought of them as “goody-goodys” and wanted to prove to them that WE were better ‘cause we were cooler and smarter and all of that. And certainly we were hipper, 'cause we were older and urban and cool, and liked better music. Besides, New York was cool, and Seattle (at that time) definitely wasn't.

When the Undertones came out with the song, “My Perfect Cousin,” I sang along, loudly.

Being a "free spirit" like my cousin Karen, and also deemed the sensitive, artistic one in my family, I would get these urges for free-ranging wanderlust, doing adventurous things like moving to London, England in my mid twenties. I was in search of my heart's desire, of course, so I could not be stopped. Not that my family ever tried to talk me out of any of my schemes -- either they were too accepting, or too lazy, or my ideas just weren't actually too weird and dangerous enough to veto. I had to live with that disappointment of not being badass enough, so I sighed and got on with it. Another adventure, another experience to write about later on and embellish – like here and now!

Anyway, I knew I'd need money and cash just wasn't my strong suit, being a musician and freelance writer. In writing, I nicely asked grandma to lend me $500 so I could make the trip. I wanted to go to England and make it as a songwriter and vocalist, just like Chrissie Hynde. It was 1981 and I admired her music & spirit in a huge way; we’d just met at my friend and bandmate, Dianne Athey's, apartment (as mentioned before, they were best friends in Akron, Ohio, at college), where the two old friends polished off a bottle of wine and pretty much entertained me. At one point in the evening I told them of my plans to move to London. Chrissie said to me, in her part Ohio, part Brit accent, in an offhanded drunk manner, "Sure, go to England, it’ll be good," so I figured it was the modern-day Delphic oracle predicting success and firmed up my plans.

Grandma, at this point a sweet tempered, forgetful old lady who daydreamed a lot, mostly communicated with me through the mail. I'd get a page-long handwritten note from her every now and then. She had a flowing, gentle scrawl, almost perfect handwriting but starting to taper off absentmindedly at the ends. . . .

Did the money from grandma come? What about those darned perfect cousins?

You’ll just have to read #57, next. . .

2-27-12 Survival Jobs for Writer-Musicians – Starter Job #55 (Preparing to move to the U.K. for Keeps. . .)

(great pic of young Nervus Rex me by SF photog. who needs to remind me of his name & whereabouts!)

My leg had now healed from my great skiing adventure with Nervus Rex. We’d played a few more gigs, but signs were pointing to a parting of the ways with the group. Two years before, we were so hopeful; two years later, everything was an uphill effort, and people in the band didn’t even seem to like one another. We’d recruited a young lead guitarist, Seth, who was a wonderful musician and a sweetheart of a guy, but our musical arrangements onstage had become long and somewhat overblown, though brilliant (the intro to “There She Goes,” our opening number at the Peppermint Lounge in the spring of 1981, was pretty over the top. . . five minutes of spacey, then driving, guitar riffs with the Panther organ and synth sounds -- not exactly poppy any longer, which suited Shawn’s mood but not the audience’s expectations).

Around this time, Nervus Rex had gone into the studio with a young Mike Chapman protégé, a recording engineer named Doug. We recorded a demo of a few tracks for our second album that we thought were pretty cool: “Funky Surfer Boy,” “Out of Love,” and “What I Really Want” (“We Learn To Live With a Little Pain, My Dear” was the chorus of another song Shawn was writing at the time -- a song that Shawn did later on with his pop group, Burning Puppets). At any rate, the titles of those songs sure are telling, hm? Whatever was going on in his brain, Shawn wasn’t into the relationship, and I was fed up, too. The record company passed on our demo, and Nervus Rex was label-less, too.

Shawn and I had been fighting for a year, and after my leg broke, we had pretty much broken up -- there were other romantic interests and a lot of “flirtin’ and hurtin’” happening. I reacted a lot to how I was being treated (I got mad and kind of suspicious when I was not invited out with Shawn when he hung out with his druggie drinking friends, and assorted “midget models” -- ouch and ouch). One young man I was “seeing” briefly (probably to hurt Shawn back -- yup, that was bad) lent me his cool black leather motorcycle jacket and wound up giving it to me (I’m lucky, see?). Crossing 14^th street on foot, he even said, “I’ll marry ya if you wear that leather jacket.” (Sadly, he was the wrong guy at the wrong time -- I was getting bored because he wasn’t real smart, just good hearted, which is good, just not enough for me.) After him, I was seeing a guy who was a real smooth talker and a big fan; he came from a well to do family in Connecticut (!!) but was kind of slimey -- of course hard drugs were involved. He was friends with a guy at Madonna’s record company who’d helped Madonna get a deal in return for sexual favors, so I thought all that inside info was quite titillating. . . anyway, it really was a mistake to date that guy but hey, I was young and had a right to make some pretty big errors in my life -- right? (just go with me on this!)

Above all, I’d wanted to move to England for some years. . . . and as if an answer to that prayer, I got a letter from my friend, Glenn Tillbrook, who knew I wanted that. He said, “Come on, move to England; you can stay in my flat in Blackheath for a few months.” He also hinted around that he and Chris Difford wanted to produce a recording project with me as the singer. Wow! Who wouldn’t jump at such an offer!

In the course of a few months, I sold my synthesizer, my Panther organ and a guitar or two (keeping my old acoustic Guild F-30), found a subletter for my apartment (and my mean- spirited calico cat, Claudette), and borrowed money from my sweet old Grandma.

Ask a relative for money? I really didn’t know how to do that, and was pretty scared and confused if it was the right thing. . .

2-26-12 Survival Jobs for Writer-Musicians – Starter Job #54 (Part Four, Working Eldercare in Greenwich Village)

What can I take away from the survival job experience of working with Nadya? First of all, I have always liked seniors, and enjoyed their company, even though they can smell funny (my grandma had a strange, unpleasant odor from her person, generally) and look a little scary.

Secondly, because they ARE generally smart and experienced in life, I find it easier to have a conversation and relate to them. Thirdly, their manners are generally better than younger people’s -- and I dig the niceties of life, the little courtesies (thanks, mom).

Given the choice, I’d prefer working with seniors over kids. . . though of course, the individual child or elderly person is an important consideration, especially if working with them one-on-one.

Working with Nadya taught me that using psychology with others is probably as important as taking care of the plain old day-to-day necessities -- which I’m good at. Food shopping, cooking, light cleaning, keeping house (lightly!) is all pretty easy, basic stuff. And everybody needs that, especially people who are hiring you to be a caretaker. The other thing you need is to make quick decisions in panic or emergency situations. I keep a cool head in a crisis; I’ve never screamed and cried until after the critical time is passed and I have time to reflect.

In the end, the hardest part of a caretaker job is the finesse you need to convince your charges that they are in charge and making their own choices. Meanwhile, you’re pointing them to these choices, prodding them in a certain (good) direction. Even if it just comes down to choosing some eggs and toast instead of flavored sugary yogurts day in and day out; even if it’s choosing fruits instead of puddings and cakes; even if it’s taking out pizza or falafels instead of MacDonald’s burgers. . .

As a caretaker, I always tried -- and try! -- to be a good influence, maybe an amateur cognitive therapist. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, either *-)

2-25-12 Survival Jobs for Writer-Musicians – Starter Job #53 (Part Three, Working Eldercare in Greenwich Village)

. . . One day, the scene that greeted my eyes (and nose) was far more than what I’d bargained for in the course of “light caretaking” (and light cleaning -- never my favorite pastime or job). But before I continue, again, I presume you’ve returned to the blogsite for a continuation of this survival job section, #’s 51 - whatever. These are my dedicated blogs to my “Working Eldercare in Greenwich Village” episodes -- or adventures. Crazily enough, those “wild young things” of the flapper era in the roaring twenties were acting just as mischievously as ever, despite their growing old and demented. One might say at times they even behaved badly, on purpose -- another observation that ties the behavior of children and the aged, and makes them similar.

So, one day, I arrived at my charge’s home, this famed graphologist Nadya Olyanova’s, in the West Village and wished I hadn’t gone.

I unlocked her door to a unpleasant smell and even more unpleasant sight. She was mostly naked, spreadeagled on her bed with arms outstretched, smeared in her own feces. Muttering incoherently, shit smeared here and there around the apartment and on the walls, Nadya seemed pretty out of it.

Me, alarmed? I go into shock first, stop everything, assess the situation for a few seconds, then charge right in.

“Nadya! What’s going on? What happened?” After talking to her and covering her, neck down, with a sheet, I called my friend, Jack, who lived in the building. “Please, come down now!”

He looked at the situation and shook his head. “She does this kind of thing from time to time, spreading out her arms like she’s Christ being crucified on the cross. Some kind of persecution complex. She’ll be all right.”

Jack turned to Nadya and started scolding her: “Nadya, come off it. Lauren’s here and you need to get up and take care of yourself.” I believe he helped me clean up (I really hate fecal matter, shit, doo doo, whatever you call it -- one big reason I don’t have dogs). We got Nadya back into compos mentis (a sound mind) and corpore sano (a healthy body) little by little. . .

That was the negative side of caring for a partly demented, totally melodramatic old woman from Greenwich Village, who went from the queen of penmanship to the queen of (her own) shit -- not that there’s anything wrong with that!

2-24-12 Survival Jobs for Writer-Musicians – Starter Job #52 (Elder Care -- Part Two, Working Eldercare in Greenwich Village)

(photo is actually one of my grandma, Ethel, circa 1925. The fashion and hairstyle is typical of women from that time; there are none of Nadya Olyanova that I could find online . . . )

I presume you’ve returned to the blogsite for a continuation of survival job #52 (perhaps -- I’m not great at keeping track of how many actual different jobs, though if each Nervus Rex gig counts, there’d be lots).

Welcome back to “Working Eldercare in Greenwich Village.” Those “wild young things” of the flapper era in the roaring twenties were growing old and demented by the early ‘80’s. One of them, a woman named Nadya Olyanova Carruthers (the latter, her deceased husband’s name), was in need of somebody to look in on her for a few hours a day, take her to the grocery store, on walks, etc. Some light housekeeping and cooking was a part of the deal -- and at the time, I was fine with the “light” side of cleaning house (and a tolerably good cook, actually).

Older generations (those born before the nineteen forties, say) were much enamored of alcohol and tobacco. I can’t say that’s what made their bodies break down or their minds susceptible to more of the geriatric health risks. . . but I somehow think the “bathtub gin” and suspicious blends of spirits from the Prohibition era, along with chainsmoking, might have not been the best thing, long term, for people like Nadya.

Like I mentioned previously, when we met (through my friend, Jack B.), she had me write a page in longhand as a sample for her to analyze before deigning to hire me as a part time helper. She lived in the West Village, off of Hudson Street, maybe on Horatio Street.

When she was napping or otherwise engaged, I’d read through her handwriting analysis books, enjoying the additional pointers she made about specific handwriting traits. Cool stuff. She didn’t tell me that she’d analyzed Hitler’s hand. . . or had a big radio audience for her work back in the heyday of radio. She never mentioned studying with Alfred Adler, either -- but perhaps she didn’t think that’d be interesting to me!

Anyhow, in the day-to-day of working with her, I’d arrive in the morning with my own set of keys at, say, nine o’clock. Usually, Nadya would be up, and would act kind of cranky. I’d have to make sure she’d eaten something for breakfast, then clean up a little. I’d ask where we’d be walking today -- to which she’d usually balk and say she’d rather stay in. Having been given instructions to take a daily walk with my charge, I’d cajole and try to reason, I’d joke and play the toughie. I reckon she liked the attention, and that she also liked to argue. Almost every day, we did wind up going out after a session of major cajoling etc.. The usual destination was to the neighborhood grocery store or to the supermarket, the D’Agostino’s, probably. “D’Ag’s” was a pricier place to buy food than my local Grand Union on Bleecker and LaGuardia Place, so I felt a slight annoyance that we had to spend more money in the West Village (but it IS a pricier neighborhood, anyway).

More often than not, Nadya would buy flavored yogurts or stuff that wasn’t super nutritious, but tolerable to her digestion and tastebuds. Even though I offered to cook more complex dishes (ones that required actual cooking), Nadya refused anything that required a fuss.

I mentioned that I was seeing Dr. Anna Manska, a village fixture, an aged General Practitioner who was especially sympathetic to women and women’s problems (psychological as well as physical). It was well known downtown that Dr. Manska was an easy touch for valium prescriptions and renewals. I liked her brusque candor and willingness to help get to the heart of the matter when I was sick (not too often!). Dr. Manska also charged very little for office visits, a good thing because so few of us had any kind of health insurance (leading the thrilling bohemian life in Greenwich Village!).

At the mention of Anna Manska, Nadya sniffed, “I knew her,” and said she was also in medical school -- as if there were some sort of competition. In fact, back in the nineteen thirties, so few women went to medical school (and hailed from Mother Russia, like Manska and Olyanova), so probably Nadya did feel a little competitive.

One day, when she seemed pretty lucid and in a good mood, I asked her about the old days in the village, and if people back then ran around and fooled around a lot -- you know, had sexual relationships like they had in modern days.

“Oh yes, but it was on the Q-T.”

Um, huh? What was that? “Nadya, what’s a Q-T?”

She smiled mischievously. “It was on the quiet -- on the Q-T.” I was given to understand that people ran around and acted every bit as wildly as they did in the writings of Dorothy Parker. How cool was that?

But as cool as Nadya Olyanova Carruthers could at times be to hang out with, there were also the days that you wish had never happened. . .