A Long Overdue Thank You

According to my loved ones, when people first meet me, they recognize four things:

Initially: Someone feminine and soft looking (some even say pretty - and ain't that sweet?)

Once I open my mouth: Attitude - sometimes good, sometimes bad, but always honest and dripping with sarcasm.

After any kind of prolonged interaction: A Fucking Juggernaut - hope you like the show I'm running, 'cause the door's over there if you don't.

If they're still there after that: I'm an enormous fan of Nikki Sixx and his work.

As a mother, writer, Reader, decent astrologer and an ironic suburban housewife/soccer mom (I love that the suburbanite soccer mom is the part that bemuses me), folks find that last discovery both funny but unsurprising. Or maybe funny because, at least to them, it should be surprising?

Sixx just released a new book, titled This is Gonna Hurt. He is on a book tour and will be just a few hours south of me on May 6th (I considered naming this post ""She (Went) Down" on the 5th to Meet Sixx on the 6th", but that led to a few too many oral sex jokes "just what DID you do to get him to sign the book?" etc.. While my naughty sense of humor loved it, there was a problem...)

The jokes have been gentle, but numerous. All to the tune of my turning into some Beatlemania-esque crazed preteen, hastily escorted to the exits after accidentally cracking the man's ribs with a hug.

Because, obviously, I have such a crush on him, you see.

It hit me that, despite how I've gone on and on about his music, his writing, his strength, his efforts to help others...I haven't gotten any farther than the playful argument I had with Ms. J while we were still in high school:

"Yeah, 'cause that's a picture of his brain hanging on your wall."

Granted, when I was fourteen, I most certainly "loved" him as only a teenage girl can "love" a rock star. As an adult, can I appreciate that he was an exceptionally beautiful guy who has grown into an exponentially more attractive man? I most certainly can. (I have ADD/Asperger's - not parenting related, sleep deprivation induced blindness).

However:  Right now, despite how well he's aged, he feels more like a long time, cherished friend. And:

Instead of swooning over his dreamyohmygodhe'ssohot-ness, I currently find his good looks to be, since they're causing this drama for me, a pain in my ass. (what the hell, dude? can't you just fucking age??? it would make my life way easier right now...)

He may have helped me make peace with the fact that I'm a warrior instead of a docile peace maker (though I only bring the smack to those doing harmful things). He may have been a sympathetic (if metaphoric) comrade in arms, helping me vent anger through listening to his music (rather than lashing out at loved ones). His work may have helped carry me through my son's autism diagnosis and through watching September 11th from a window instead of a TV.

But my affection for him is just because he's super cute. Okaaaaayyyyy....

Through his work, his art, his struggle, his life - and his willingness to display it all "for the whole world to see", Sixx has been a positive force in my life for a little over twenty years. I hesitate to say that I "love" him, since that word is shamelessly overused in our language. I love my kids. I love the beach. I love writing. Each is a different kind of love. See?

Instead, I'd really like to give him a hand on a bad day - to be able to say "don't worry, brutha - I'll take care of that for you". It would wonderful to be in a position to reciprocate at least a little of the support and peace of mind he's given me over the years. Acknowledging the enormous debt I owe him has nothing to do with his looks. "Loving" him for the difference he's made in my life (and the lives of those who deal with me) is, I think, very different from rock star lust. So there.

When I had the opportunity to meet Norman Reedus, the entire experience, from finding out to coming home after the event, lasted under four days. I found out about Sixx's book signing almost a full month in advance. Which means that rather than just excited, I now have time to entertain a great deal of terror.

Marshal says, "Megan, he is just a guy. I'm sure he puts his pants on one leg at a time, just like the rest of us."

No doubt Marshal's right. Problem is, I'm not scared of Sixx - I'm scared of the time limit.

This is a one shot opportunity to thank this man for all he's done for me, knowing that he actually gets the information.  How do I fit it all in?

Harsh reality: I can't. Any attempt to do so will certainly result in the above described ejection. It would be amazing to know he remembered me...but as a girl with a heartfelt thank you, or as proof that even though he's been consciously trying to help others for the past several years, he's been making a huge damn difference in my life for over twenty. Or hell, even that I was the chick with the shock of pink hair and a thing for carnelian. Any of those would be great.

As a blubbering, inarticulate, emotionally short circuited fan getting dragged out? Not so much. That's the kind of memory that would inspire him to have his security team carry my picture.

Solution? Give him a handwritten letter expressing my personal thanks, a gift that will be (hopefully) helpful to him and be content that I've given back to him to the best of my ability.

Or I can try just a liiiiitle more...and hope he reads a blog entry if I post it to his wall...

POST SCRIPT: Upon reflection, I find it very, very funny that when dealing with the crazy trespasser scaring my kids (from the post, Neighbor on the (Pain in the) Backside,) I talked about WWMD (What Would Murdock Do?)...but ended up actually doing WICSSD (What I Could See Sixx Doing).