Hit by an Anvil, my story of Anvil

Hit by an Anvil, my story of Anvil

This past weekend in an attempt to avoid the heavy rains and soggy pant bottoms, I sat down to watch a Netflixed copy of Anvil, The Story of Anvil. It left me with a mixed bag of nuts feeling that was a combo of salty pity and sweet envy. As a side note it also left me referring to everyone with “yea Man, totally Man,” in my best Lips (the lead singer/guitarist's) voice.

For those unaware it is a documentary story of a rock band from Canada who were on the way up in the 80's, they shoulda, woulda, coulda, but never fully made it with their counterparts Whitesnake, Iron Maiden and yes Jersey, Bon Jovi. Mind you, all of these go to 80's bands state that Anvil was what moved them to play, they looked up to Anvil. The band still has a large international following and a more modest domestic one.

I dare you to watch and not root for Lips on lead vocals and Robb Reiner on drums not only for what they were then with their bondage gear outfits and their affinity for playing instruments with dildos but for who they are now. They are clearly, out of date, near out of time in the eyes of some, 50 year old family men who through sheer insanity and talent have not given up.

Anvil's kind of perseverance can only be a result of a special brand of insanity that we could all use exposure to. I myself envy their “never give up” attitude. It is almost as if it is not possible by some force of inner nature for them to throw in the towel. Their disappointment is for a moment sad but their diligence heroic for a lifetime.

Although, I do wish that they would one day make it bigger then even they have imagined, I see why they have not-yet. We need them not to give up the fight. I need them to keep trying. Society without even knowing it needs these 50 year old rockers to keep believing so that we may. These two would shovel shit for days if it meant they could play to one authentic fan for an hour in a dungeon. All they want is respect and to be payed for their work but something tells me that appreciation of their quest is their real dowry.

I get it, I am this kind of crazy. I am armed with the same kind of childlike wanting and hope that hard work and passion does and can work. My one lacking element that sets me aside from these warriors of rock is that they are fearless about their own abilities. They do not doubt their talent, they do not question their fans taste they just soldier on figuring that they can be casualties of the business that will hopefully catch on to their Anvil Fever again.

In a world where so many of our celebrated musicians fall to the gods of drugs and vice and never return, these guys are still fighting for the right to visit the temple of rock. They just want to be able to pay their bills and fulfill the dreams of their families who as hard as it has been, support their efforts the best they know how.

So, I in the name of Anvil will keep up my own quest. On days when I doubt myself I will instead flip my makeup brushes around and pound on my compacts and trudge on. I will not allow myself to wallow in pity or call my becoming a makeup artist a dream. I may show up, 50 yrs old with ten pounds of makeup on and 5 sets of fake lashes caked on top of each other but I will still show up. I may be Lips to someone else but I will be Russian Red from M.A.C. Lips.

Cosmetic Porn

I am a mess, I would like to be able to say that I am more often a "hot mess' but that would be an untruth. There are times that I am just a disaster area, much like Pig Pen on Peanuts, I always mean well but I usually enter a room create a cloud of physical chaos and as fast as I appear, I am gone.

As a youth(I cannot lie, still to this day), my space is cluttered with piles of my belongings. I can not for the life of me organize or be into cleaning, no matter how I try. I did not inherit the Italian mama on the floor using her own nails to scrape grime off the kitchen floor gene. I am a teacher who is unlike most teachers in the way that I do not always know where my markers are or that there are some missing. Fear not, I do notice if there are kids missing and I have not ever had a major catastrophe due to my clutter. I often utter the saying, "I wanna live life, not clean it".

The opposing part of my personality hates the fact that I cannot make a room look immaculate, that I always have one sock missing, that I will never like cleaning, that I do misplace things and that more then once I have left the house with the remote in my purse and have used a spatulla in public to eat my yogurt when I had no clean spoons. Confession, I just had no spoons, I think I had thrown them out with the Tupperware that I should have saved from lunch but did not.

The TV show Hoarders gives me mixed emotions. It makes me fearful that I could be one and also makes me want to throw everything out while making me think, "Hell, I am not THAT bad, am I?"

I will be approaching my point soon, fear not. Although I lean toward disorganization, there are certain things that I am insanely particular about. Since I was a teen, and I shoplifted my first lipstick I reveled in the perfect form of the slope that is to ever so lightly spread bright colors on your lips. How perfect the beads of moisture look on the lipstick sides. Palettes of eye colors so neat and well packed in their tins. A pattern particular to each brand gently pressed onto the top so gloriously I hate to disturb it. Eyeliner tips always sharpened like tools of tribal warfare lined up just so. It is crazy, in the midst of clothing chaos my makeup has always been displayed as if in the Egypt room at the MET. The creams and liquids, so level I could skate atop of them. I am sure that my cosmetic porn has gotten you all hot and heavy. I know that there may be some deep rooted reason for my makeup psychosis because after all, makeup always fits no matter what you ate last night. Still, it amazes me.

The other day I came into our bedroom, and was convinced that there had been a home invasion and we were ransacked. My Dan suffers from the same clutter virus I have except I think he piles his clothes so he can always be surrounded by his good fashion. I looked around at both his piles, my piles, then all my open drawers and thought "Blasted, we have been had!". Then my eyes gazed over to my makeup display and all my shadows were in a row, my lipsticks and glosses in color order and my liner spears sharpened as always. I sighed with relief. We had not been robbed, and I left every piece of clothing where it lay.

Maybe I have always known, maybe inside each of us have always known what it is we want and where we want to be. Look around at your own strange habits and what they focus on. They are telling. Now, where is that channel changer?