November 7, 1992

 I ran away from home and landed in Nashville May 5, 1988. I knew I had to stop doing drugs or I might not survive the next overdose. I continued to use off and on but by 1992 I had actually stopped using for about two years. Knowledge of HIV and AIDS was becoming better known and testing more widely available. Towards the end of October, 1992 I went over to the health department in East Nashville. My past IV drug use and prostitution was enough to get me there. On November 7, 1992 I went back to the health department for my results. My panel was negative, including HIV. I get home and turn on the TV and they're talking to Magic Johnson and he is telling the world he is HIV positive. What???? I breathe a sigh of relief, switch the channel and started to make dinner. The phone rings and it's my friend Theresa. I hadn't heard from her in three years. Theresa and I had been lovers and we had shared needles. We had also turned tricks together, money on that was good. We talk for a minute when she says "you need to get tested for HIV." I'm pretty sure I stopped breathing for a bit. I asked why (although I already knew). She admitted she had tested positive. I told her that I had JUST gotten my results and was fine. We talked about Magic and how weird that was and I hung up. I continued to get tested every three months because I was sure it would show up. It never has. In the past year I did test positive for Hepatitis C which I'm sure was a result of my IV drug usage. I've finished the anti-virals and next week will be going back to the doctor for my three month follow up to check if I am undetectable and to see if I have liver damage. So if you are getting tested for STIs make sure they test for everything. Don't think they've tested and come to find out years later they didn't. I still test regularly for HIV. I really don't know why I never got it. Or why I am the only one in my crowd still alive. So I am going to school and hopefully I can help someone that is where I used to be. I am still here for a reason. jmt

So Much Word Salad

I don't ever remember my dreams. I had one last night, and I immediately wrote it down because it was so weird, and I knew I wouldn't remember it.

I was working at my desk. My desk was in the same place although the rest of the house wasn't mine. A motorcade had broken down in front of my house. I go to answer the door, and there stood a person in a full burqa. The woman in the burqa explained that while they waited for someone to fix the vehicle, Trump and Pence needed a place to write a speech. I offer to let them come in, so they could write their speech. The Secret Service sweeps the house, gives the go-ahead, and the three enter the house. I sit them down at the dining room table, and I go back to my desk to work. Trump and Pence are arguing about what the speech should contain. After a bit, the woman comes to me to ask if I would edit the address for them. They were taking one of the vehicles and going to get Trump something to eat. I told them I would be happy to edit the speech, and they leave. 

I call upstairs to Eric (we don't even have an upstairs). He comes down, and I tell him what just happened. He cannot understand why I would even let them in the house. I said because I am a good American. Eric says, "But you hate the man." And I reply that I still do. I ask him to get my computer from my backpack. Eric asks if I am seriously going to do this. I told him yes. I look at the paper they gave me. What a mess!  After a bit Pence and the woman in the burqa came back, and Pence apologizes to me saying "so much word salad." Unfortunately, I woke up then. 

I am sitting here laughing, picturing Pence saying "so much word salad." It was just too funny not to share.

How People Handle YOUR Memories

I am really at a loss. Earlier my boyfriend scraped his fork on the plate and a major memory came to my mind. I was a freshman in high school I think. It was before my parents divorced so it was either summer or soon after school started. We were out as a family for dinner. Dad hated it when we scraped our silverware on the plate. I accidentally did this, and I remember looking at him wondering if he was going to beat the shit out of me right in the middle of the restaurant. He didn't but I got a look like I would be in trouble when we got home. I think he forgot because I was safe that night. 

Tonight though, Eric did the same thing and the memory of that night at the restaurant came flooding back. I tried to explain it to him and he told me I had too much drama in my life. He didn't want to hear that the simple act of him scraping his fork on the plate brought terror into my mind. I am pretty open about my past. There was a lot going on. I wasn't looking for sympathy, but I needed him to understand how terrifying hearing that was. I did speak to someone about starting online therapy. I mean, the scraping of the fork set into motion so many different emotions. Will I ever be able to get all of this worked out? Will my past ever be resolved to where I feel normal?  I am 60 years old. I want some time of normalcy before I die. We'll see.

How Steven Tyler Saved My Life

This is a long one folks. Settle back, enjoy the ride. It has a happy ending, promise. 

Tuesday, January 10, 2017

HOW STEVEN TYLER SAVED MY LIFE

Yeah, I know.  It already sounds far fetched.  But please continue.  Hopefully, it will all make sense in the end. Truthfully, as I write this, I’m not so sure.  But this really happened.  I met someone the other day and I found myself telling her. If I can tell her, I can tell anyone.

If you know me, you know I’m an open book on my past, my drug usage, losing my kids, and everything in between.  I ran away from home, at 28, in 1988. Yes, it was running away.  I was addicted to heroin and cocaine and prostituting to get the money to pay for the drugs.  Just like a little kid leaving because he knows there’s something better if he leaves, I believed the same thing.  My way was by a friend in an 18 wheel truck.  He asked me if I wanted to go to Seattle.  I said, “Get me the fuck out of Illinois”. And he did. But we got to Effingham Illinois and he was told by his company he had to go back home to Nashville because his driver's license was getting ready to expire.  Again he asked if I wanted to go.  Again, the same response about getting the fuck out of Illinois. Except for a couple trips on vacations I really hadn’t been out of Illinois.  So Seattle and Nashville sounded exotic. Places far, far away from my life, and everything and everyone that I perceived to have hurt me.  The reason I ran though is because my mom had just gotten custody of my kids, something I wanted to prevent when I placed them in foster care.  I left long term treatment, went back to what I knew to try and mask the pain and gave up completely.  Until the trip was offered.  I saw a way out.  I got to Nashville and things were good! I got a job, a better job, housing, friends, a boyfriend. I stayed clean.  Yes, the program tells you that changing locations doesn’t work.  But it does if you change the people, places, and things you are doing.  I knew the fundamentals of treatment and even though I didn’t go to meetings, I did stay drug-free.

I did think of my family, my kids.  But I felt the situation was dead and there was nothing I could do to fix it.  I wasn’t powerful enough to fight my mom. She made it clear I couldn’t see my kids, so why did I need to pretend it was ever going to get better.  In forgetting my mom and kids, I also forgot I had other family that really loved me. Not my sisters, they could have cared less.  I was a fuck up and according to my mom, I would always be one.  I believed it.  But I have an aunt, uncle, and cousins that I should have realized cared just as much. At the time though I felt my mom would influence their feelings towards me.  She did it to my kid’s, why not her sister and her family?  Probably a year and a half after getting to Nashville,  I called my cousin Cindy.  Of course, everyone thought I was dead.  That’s a long time not to hear from someone, especially someone who is a drug addict.  Cindy was relieved to hear from me.  She and I discussed her coming to Nashville to see me, to be able to tell the family I was really doing well, not just lying about it, something I had been really good at. Then she dropped the bombshell.  My mom was going to try and terminate my rights and adopt my children. Oh Hell No. I really don’t remember who I contacted to start the process of fighting for my kids.  I do know I had to go to meetings and document it, I had to have weekly drug testing to prove I was staying clean.  I contacted CASA to do an informal study of me.  And I really don’t remember how I got my attorney.  She’s the one that instructed me to do these things.

In February 1992 I went up to Freeport Illinois to scope out the job and housing situation so I would be accessible for upcoming court dates.  I didn’t want to be in Rockford because why would I want to be back where nothing had changed, where the drugs and situations were still there? Two days after arriving I had secured a front desk manager job at the Stephenson Hotel.  I actually lied my way into that job.  Vic asked if I knew his new computer program and I said yes.  Turns out it was so much easier than the ones I had used at other hotels.  A simple lie that worked out.

I got a cute little apartment across from the hotel and tried to prepare myself mentally for the fight I knew was coming.  I didn’t trust my mom, at all, but I was seeing that I had an ally in my aunt Bonnie. She took time off from work every time I had a court date, to make sure I got there and to offer moral support.

The first court date. I was thrilled because Judge Morrison was the Juvenile Court judge that had been assigned to my case.  Judge Morrison and I had a history.  He was the one who presided over my three misdemeanor cases, one being for prostitution.  He knew I had been actively involved in drugs.  He called me into his office to let me know he had results of an HIV test that had been performed years ago.  It was a state law you had to be tested if you were arrested for certain charges.  It was negative and he told me he was glad I had gotten clean.  So I felt that I would be successful in getting my kids back. Imagine my surprise when my mom’s attorney asked for a change in judges. Damn, she fucked me again.  I kept my chin up and soldiered on.  But it dragged on.  Instead of trying to get it over and done with, court dates were six to eight weeks apart.  I kept doing what I had to do.  I wasn’t required to be drug tested as long as I was working and maintaining.  On court day though, I was tested every time.  Cool, no problem.  I think dragging it out may have been a psychological ploy, to see if I was strong enough to endure.

During this time I hooked up with Rickie.  He was, no, I’m not going to tell that lie.  He was a freak in the bed, and that made me happy.  Things had been so vanilla in my sex life, and he really spiced things up.  Things I had previously done for clients had become reality in my life. But he was a crackhead.  A functioning crackhead, but one nonetheless.  He was driving cab and helped me get on driving. It was something to do.  I also hooked up with the Department of Rehab Services to be a home health aide.  I was able to pay bills and continue what I was doing to fight for my kids.

I found out I wasn’t management material and soon lost my job at the hotel.  I got a job at the county nursing home and started nurse's aide training. Things went well, until a resident snatched my wrist, causing me to miss work.  There was some nerve damage and I really couldn’t go back to work.  

Fast forward to September of 1993.  The court case was still going on but it was a train wreck.  The people who I had to tell my side were torn to shreds by my mom’s attorney. It was my turn.  I was torn to shreds too. Things were brought up, half-truths posed as questions.  I couldn’t defend myself without making myself look guilty.  I was called a liar for saying I had been abused as a child.  I wasn’t able to fight for myself.  I had been told not to cry, which I did, but it was out of frustration that I was sinking so fast.  I got loud, trying to make myself be believed.  It didn’t work. I knew before I got off the stand that I had lost. It was cemented when my mom got on the stand and told her lies.  I couldn’t believe my truths were perceived as lies, and her lies perceived as truth.  I started to believe that my mom, her attorney, and the judge were in cahoots.  I believe to this day that there was some pay off to make my mom win.  This will make more sense in a minute.

September 12, 1993, my 34th birthday.  I had just gotten my monthly paycheck from DORS. Rickie and I were already having a great time celebrating and before I knew it, I had made the decision to get high again.  It was crack, it wasn’t as bad as speedballing was my rationale.  Plus, it was only going to be that night. Yeah right. Bad thing, Rickie didn’t even try to stop me, knowing what I was trying to do.  But, crackhead. He wouldn’t. The drugs were good, the high was good, different. And the sex was phenomenal. But, every single, motherfucking penny was gone. Remember, the court case is still going on. I didn’t care.

I don't remember how many more court dates there were. Not too many.  I continued to be dropped after court. It was my attorney’s decision as to what the place would test for.  Never once did she say crack or cocaine. Heroin or marijuana was her go-to. Damn, maybe I would get away with this.

The final date.  My rights were terminated. BUT.  I was given visitation.  Who does that?  If I’m so horrible that you need to terminate my rights to my children, then I don’t deserve any contact with my children. This is why I believe there was some payoff to the judge.  We’ll fuck her, but not too bad. Visitation was arranged and my mom or stepdad was really good about getting the kids out from Sterling to Freeport to see me.  I continued to get high.  We were allowing people to get high at the house, which allowed us to smoke pretty much for free. Visits were usually conducted after being up all night.  I was thrilled to be seeing my kids because it had been so long. Visits had started during court, supervised, at some therapist's office. My daughter being older knew I was fighting for them, my son couldn't really understand. Plus, with all the lies my mom had told them, lies that I never wanted them, that I didn't love them, that I would always be a drug addict and a whore really did a number on them. To this day, my son and I don’t speak due to these lies. My daughter and I are best friends.

November 1993.  This is where Steven Tyler comes in.  The song Amazing is released by Aerosmith.  I am not an Aerosmith fan, although I have been hearing their music since I was a freshman in high school. I hear the song without really listening to it.  I like it, but I really don’t give it much thought. Then, I would hear it when I was getting high.  Certain lines from the song started catching my ear. OMG, it’s a recovery song!! I really don’t want to hear this.  How dare Aerosmith and Steven Tyler infringe on me enjoying my high talking about recovery.  More often than not I changed the station or put in a tape. I actually hated him for this. Why I took this so personally, I’m not sure. I mean, I actually hated Steven Tyler.

Early January 1994.  The depression hit hard.  I was getting high again, I was basically homeless, and I just didn’t give a fuck anymore.  The thought of suicide was there, not the first time in my life.  I believed I would never see my kids again,  I had let my aunt and uncle down. I had let ME down. I spent three days in bed, getting high and being miserable.  I always had music on, regardless of how I felt. Day three of the severe depression and that damn song Amazing comes on the radio. This time I really listened to the words:

I kept the right ones out

And let the wrong ones in

Had an angel of mercy to see me through all my sins

There were times in my life

When I was goin' insane

Tryin' to walk through

The pain

When I lost my grip
And I hit the floor
Yeah, I thought I could leave, but couldn't get out the door
I was so sick and tired
Of livin' a lie
I was wishin' that I would die

It's amazing
With the blink of an eye, you finally see the light
It's amazing
When the moment arrives that you know you'll be alright
It's amazing
And I'm sayin' a prayer for the desperate hearts tonight

That one last shot's permanent vacation
And how high can you fly with broken wings?
Life's a journey, not a destination
And I just can't tell just what tomorrow brings

You have to learn to crawl
Before you learn to walk
But I just couldn't listen to all that righteous talk, oh yeah
I was out on the street,
Just a tryin' to survive
Scratchin' to stay alive

It's amazing
With the blink of an eye, you finally see the light
It's amazing
When the moment arrives that you know you'll be alright
Oh, it's amazing
And I'm sayin' a prayer for the desperate hearts tonight

Desperate hearts, desperate hearts

Songwriters: Richie Supa / Steven Tyler

Amazing lyrics © EMI April Music Inc

With the blink of an eye, you finally see the light. I went for a walk. There was a travel agent about 3 blocks from where I was staying.  There was a chalkboard with a sign that said they were running specials to a list of places.  On that list was Nashville.  Home.  I had repeatedly told my aunt that I wanted to go home.  She would say, but you are home.  I guess meaning that I had a vacation, and now I had returned.  No, Nashville had become home. Even in a year and a half, I knew this is where I belonged. The $75 I had in my pocket was initially going to be used to buy enough heroin to kill myself. Hearing the song made me decide to buy the plane ticket.  It was a cheap flight, direct to Nashville from O’Hare.  I ran away, again.  I took a bus from Rockford to O’hare.  It was 2 degrees and snowing on January 5, 1995.  An hour after takeoff we landed at BNA. It was 72 degrees and sunny.  Yeah, I made the right move.  I was headed to the Nashville Rescue Mission but detoured and called a friend that stayed in the projects not far from the mission.  In exchange for sex, I had a place to stay.  I applied for a job at a local nursing home. Things were going well, and the next thing I knew I was being fired from my job.  I wasn’t given an explanation, just that I was being let go. It didn’t make sense, because my work was good, and the residents liked me. I went back to Harris Publishing a job I had before moving to Illinois.  I was able to get a small room which was just perfect for me. I also was diagnosed with Bi-Polar Disorder and was starting on medication.  I can’t remember how long things were okay.  I was working, not doing drugs, but really just existing. One night about 3am there was a knock on my door.  I was laying in bed reading and so my light was on. There was a guy there I had never seen before.  And I could see he was fucked up.  He asked if he could pay me for sex.  He only had a money order for $100, but he would give it to me to cash and all I had to do was bring him back $25. $75? Business wasn’t that good in Rockford. Hell yeah, I would.  I then asked him what he was on.  Crack.  Did I want to get high while we fucked?  Sure, why not? We really had a great time.  I had stepped off the cliff, again. Work suffered, but I hung on.  The drugs and sex had become the forefront of my existence.  Raffield and I continued to party and then we added Bryant to the mix. Steven Tyler and Amazing would try and reach me again, but I always turned it off.  I was not hearing that mess.

Sometime later, I met my soon to be husband. Things started off well and I was leaving crack, Raffield and Bryant, alone.  I was doing better at work. Maybe there was some misplaced gratitude for getting me out of the mix and I decided to marry him.  And it was like a switch was thrown.  He started drinking very heavily, and unbeknownst to me, he too was smoking crack.  One night he beat the fuck out of me. He hit me so hard the entire left side of my face was black. The neighbors called Metro and he was arrested because it was quite evident that he hit me.  I couldn’t miss work and had to show up with my face all bruised. I will never forget how bad that was. My co-workers were awesome and really tried to help. Because I was married and he was getting counseling while in jail, I started visiting him, putting money on his books.  One of the Deacons of the church eventually talked me into going back with him and at least giving it a second chance. Things were okay for about 2 months.  He was bringing his paycheck home, we were doing things together and I thought there was hope for our relationship. Right before Christmas 1996, we were at Rivergate Mall.  We had a nice dinner at a restaurant with a bar.  Tracy had a drink with dinner.  We split up to shop agreeing to meet back at a certain time.  I had no clue he went back to the restaurant and continued to drink. I get back and he is beyond fucked up. We went outside to wait on our cab and he started screaming at me.  I’m trying to ignore him because we are in public, but some busybody contacted security. He had seen Tracy grab me and went and reported it.  I was asked if I wanted Metro called.  I said no, things will be alright we just needed to get home. But the yelling and screaming continued.  I’m scared shitless I’m going to get hit, but he was under the impression that if he DIDN’T hit me he would be ok and not go to jail.  But he degraded me anyway.  He spit on me, he called me out my name so bad.  And I’m trying to ignore it because I just knew I was going to get hit.  Thank God for nosy neighbors because Metro was called. It was the same cops as before, which was weird in itself.  Because they remembered the previous situation they took him to jail. I’m determined to not have anything to do with him.  I reach out to Bryant, not for drugs or sex, but because I needed a friend. Over the next month even though I did start smoking crack again, he would tell me that I needed to get out of the neighborhood, to do better for myself.  He had faith in me, I sure didn’t. My next paycheck I found a room at the Continental Inn on Murfreesboro Rd. I had no clue what a drug haven it was.  I was still at the publishing company and things were actually looking up for me.  Then I ran into a friend from back before I moved to Illinois.  I didn’t know he had started using.  He introduced me to his friend James and before you know it, I was back to doing everything from before, including prostitution to pay for the drugs.  Murfreesboro Rd was a great place to make money.  James and I were a “couple” for a couple months and we broke up because he didn't like me on the streets.  I continued to hustle to pay for the room and drugs. I remember one night I got into a Jeep. Now in all these years, I had been really lucky on the street.  No injuries, one arrest, and I was still alive.  But, this particular night, I knew I was dead.  First off dude gets on the interstate.  My mind is going a thousand miles a minute. I'm carrying on conversation trying to find out what his intention is for me.  On the south loop around the city, he tells me he's undercover and he’s taking me to jail.  Well, there was no conversation of sex for money or anything along those lines for him to bust me.  And besides, we had just merged onto 65 South.  Going away from CJC, and Night Court, where he would have taken me if I was under arrest. Then he tells me he’s going to take me to Alabama and leave me.  Great.  I was either dead or I had to find a way home. Almost to the Tennessee/Alabama border, my least favorite song came on the radio.  I held on to the thought that if I made it back alive I would get clean and do what I was supposed to do to stay that way. You know, making deals with God. Yeah, I was going to listen to Steven Tyler and get clean.  Not sure why dude didn't leave me in Alabama. I like to think he was using this as a scare tactic to get me off the streets. It almost worked.

By now my job was gone.  I had quit because the drugs and the streets were more important. I did clean up for about two weeks. Then who do I run into but Tracy?  He was up the street at The Drake Motel. We eventually started talking and agreed to try again. He had a really good job and was making arrangements to get an apartment in The Bottom.  Lewis St.  What’s funny, is that I was warned in 1988 about never going down there. And here I was making plans to move there.  We move in, and for about a month things were okay.  Not perfect, but better than they had been.  I was still using, behind his back.  He eventually found out but we started getting high together instead of there being a huge argument about it. What a mistake.  About a month later we were getting high.  Tracy was the kind of crackhead that would get paranoid when he got high and he would constantly ruin my high.  But it was payday, there was money, drugs and I was able to escape to a friend's house to enjoy my high.  I got home about 4 in the morning and not only is Tracy high, but he’s been drinking, heavily.  I was being accused of fucking while I was gone when all I was doing was sitting at a girlfriend's house enjoying my dope.  He started screaming, spitting and grabbed my arm with such force that it broke.  I guess he realized what he had done because he was out the door before Metro got there.  Because you know the neighbors called them.  I never saw him again.  I had gotten a job to try and maintain the apartment, but the Continental Inn was only four blocks away and I knew the drugs were there.  I had hooked up with the brother of the dope lady, and he made sure I was supplied.  Eventually, I was evicted from the Lewis St apartment and moved back to the Continental, to be close to Bobby, the dope lady, and Murfreesboro Rd.  

Early one Sunday morning I picked up this trick.  This dude was HUGE!!  Easily 6’4” and 600 pounds. He took me to his home in Murfreesboro and surprisingly he was able to have sex.  Things fit and the money was good.  A couple weeks late he talked me into moving to Murfreesboro, getting my life together and he was going to help.  But when I found out he expected to fuck for free I quickly left him alone.  I was in a motel there, and the drugs and tricks were there too. Awesome, huh? I hooked with a dude named Jason and he quickly moved into my room.  We had people in and out, getting high.  I was going to other rooms to turn tricks.  More drugs.  We always had the radio on.  For the longest, I hadn't listened to music.  I had no interest in it.  For me to not like music? Music has been a part of my entire life, from birth. But I wouldn't listen.  Maybe I was afraid of hearing the song Amazing, and I truly didn't want to hear it.

And sure enough.  I would hear it, but not often.  It was easy to change the station because no one else wanted to hear that song either, but because of Aerosmith, not the song itself.  One day the depression hit hard again.  Again, thoughts of suicide.  Again, Amazing came on the radio.  Again, I paid attention.  I let the words sink in.  But this time I had a whole different feeling about the song.  I internalized the words.  I really wanted to get clean.  “When the moment arrives that you know you’ll be alright”. This was my moment.  “You have to learn to crawl before you can walk”. I was crawling.  So November 28, 1998, I called the mental health center in town and explained the situation.  I also threw in the fact that I was Bi-Polar and had been without meds for awhile.  They came and transported me to Parthenon Pavilion at Centennial Hospital.  I stayed there for a week and got back on meds.

I was released to the Nashville Rescue Mission. They didn't have an opening in their drug center, so I joined what was called their Job Readiness program.  I was in a program, where I had some structure. I was going to outside meetings.  They had made an exception since I had wanted to get into the Hope Center.  I graduated from the Job Readiness Program and they hired me to work weekends on third shift. I had also applied for disability and was quickly approved.  I was able to move out.  Still, in my old ways, I moved in with a guy I had met at a meeting.  Things were great until the wife he was separated from wanted to come home. My case manager helped me move into a transitional housing place managed by the Mental Health Co-op.  When the guy sold the house, I moved to another house.  This house was owned by a church.  By then I had been promoted to full time.  I was ready for my own place.  The guy that managed the house for the church had an apartment for rent.  I took it. I continued to work for the mission for 13 years.  I was on serious meds for bipolar but I was pretty much existing.  I wasn’t going to meetings because I was giving away what I had learned to the women of the mission.  Then I lost my job. I was burnt out and it affected my attitude, my hygiene, everything. I lost my insurance and couldn’t find a way to pay for my medication.  I went through a hell of a withdrawal and had a nervous breakdown.  But I forged ahead.  I looked for work, finally landing an interview at Walmart.  I started work in Sept 2014, six months after being fired from the mission. I loved it!!  I loved the hard work, I loved getting up and actually looked forward to going to work.  One day I saw my director from the Mission.  She commented on how happy I looked. I told her I was.  And, I thanked her for firing me.  I still don't go to meetings.  But I have learned a whole new way of living.  New coping mechanisms. I don't allow negativity to cloud my mind.  Every time something gets fucked up, or I make a fucked up decision, I think of the positives that come along in the situation.  And usually, for every fucked up situation, there are dozens of positives I can count to let me know that the good does exist. I refuse to stay down. I have stumbled much in the last year.  But, I can count the stumbles on two hands and still have fingers left.  The positives are like stars in the sky. Way too many to count.  And while looking for the positives, I'm thankful for the negatives so that I can see the positives.  Because at one point in my life, I felt there would be no negatives or positives.  And now I have over 18 years clean. I'm a new creation, someone I really like. I do have moments of doubt. I have made new friends that have been so giving and loving to me. I have friends from the past who still love me regardless. But after so many years of feeling like shit, when someone does something nice for me, I question whether I'm worthy of this. Thanks, Steven Tyler for saving my life. And you know? I don't hate you anymore. Because my life is Amazing now!!

February 15,2020

There is an addendum to this story. I always said I wanted to meet Steven Tyler to thank him for writing the song Amazing. Well, it was actually written by Richie Supa with the help of Steven Tyler. I have a very dear friend. I was telling him I wanted to thank Steven and why. He went out of his way to try and reach Steven Tyler. He ended up reaching Richie Supa. He told Richie about how this song had saved my life. Richie told him it would be impossible to be put in touch with Steven because there are SO many people whom this song has saved. But my friend thanked Richie for saving his friend's life. I lost the conversation. I thought I had it screenshot. What my friend did is probably one of my greatest gifts. I still want to thank Steven Tyler. I said I don't get nervous meeting famous people. I don't think I can not be nervous meeting Steven. He was part of a song that saved my life. We'll see, maybe one day.


https://youtu.be/KRcrv8uG7Y8

Julie Tracy

January 10, 2017

Famous People

     When I was younger we used to hang out outside Wrigley Field after a game. Before gentrification and the huge change to Wrigleyville, the players would park outside on the left-field side of the park. Not too many people really knew about this and there was usually just a handful of people waiting. I remember what a thrill it was to meet Manny Trillo, Jose Cardinal, Rick Monday, Don Kessinger. But I wasn't starstruck about meeting my heroes. They seemed like cool guys who took the time to chat with us, autograph our programs and joke around. As I got a bit older my dad would take me to the Cubby Bear, a bar across from the main gate at Clark and Addison. A number of players used to go in for a few beers and talk to the fans. I met some of the opposing players as well, most memorably Mike Schmidt. Again, I never got starstruck when meeting these great ballplayers.

     At 14 I met all of Blood, Sweat, and Tears. They had an album signing at the JC Penneys in Woodfield Mall. The turnout was so bad. Me and another girl.  I sat and chatted with Bobby Colomby and David Clayton Thomas, discussing the different songs they had done. Just like I had known them all my life.

     A Cheap Trick album signing a few years later. Again, not a big turnout. They were promoting their album Dream Police to the hometown crowd. I guess the hometown didn't really care. They were such nice guys. Yes, I know that most famous people have a public and private persona. But every time I ran into any of the guys from Cheap Trick they were just as nice as could be. I ran into Tom Petterson at a concert at the Ryman Auditorium last year. I don't usually approach people but I figured from one Rockfordian to another, why not? Again, he was just as nice as he could be.

     I don't get nervous when I meet someone famous. I am respectful and never take up too much of their time. I never ask for autographs. I live in Nashville and have run into a few famous people. And contrary to popular belief, you hardly ever see someone famous in Nashville. But it happens. I have never kept track of all the famous people I have met. The only one that mattered was Robert Lamm from the group Chicago. I DID get nervous meeting him. I almost barfed on his shoes. I tried to ask if I could get a special picture of just he and I. He put one hand on my arm, the other on my shoulder and said: "let's get that picture." Oh. My. God. You can tell from the picture that I felt like I was going to be sick. But since then, I have seen him three times. Once asked for his autograph and he agreed. He signed my right arm. Two days later I got it tattooed because it was almost faded out. I had the opportunity to show him. He didn't quite believe it was forever.

     There is one person that I will have a hard time holding it together if I were to ever meet him. That is Steven Tyler of Aerosmith. That is another story for another day.

ARGGGGGG

     A couple of years ago I decided to become a college student. I have been doing very well considering I am on the downside of 60. I only take one class at a time because I do work full-time.  Plus I don't know how people handle more than one class at a time. The program I am in is accelerated, so we get sixteen weeks of schooling in eight. Plus I attend online.  You can ask the professor for help, but sometimes email is as slow as snail-mail. I am not complaining about attending online. I like being able to sit at my computer when I want, instead of having to be in a class for x amount of hours, x amount of days.

     Since failing math in high school I have taught myself enough algebra to realize that I really love numbers.  I took a business math class last year and did well. My advisor felt I could handle Statistics. Now I really do understand the need for this application. I have seen it used in my current job. But damn, is this some hard shit. I have made it through four weeks with a solid B average. This week, I am stuck. I am waiting for a response from my professor on a problem I should probably know how to figure the solution. But I am pretty sure I broke my brain yesterday.  It is just one stupid little problem. Well, three parts of a problem. I have read and re-read the text. I have printed the professor's emails for assistance. I have all the technology to figure it out but trying to figure out WHAT numbers I need to get the answer is what is throwing me off. And I cannot go any further until I figure out this problem.  I also have the ability to see an example of how to figure the solution as well as the ability to see the problem solved (they give you another similar question afterward). None of this is helping.  So ARGGGGGGGGG.

My Crazy Meeting with Rick Neilsen of Cheap Trick

 ***Disclaimer***While this conversation actually happened, knowing that Rick is a joker leads me to believe this is not the TRUE story. It is funny none the less.


     I used to run into Rick Neilsen from Cheap Trick at the most random times.  This was in the mid-80s in Rockford, Illinois.  His parents had a gift shop on 7th Street and he had a studio area above the shop.  One night I ran into him at the liquor store on the corner of 2nd Ave and 7th Street, about 3 shops down from his parent's store. I was laughing with him about the fact that the liquor store after midnight was not a place I expected to run into him. 7th Street was known for being the "stroll", the area on the east side of town that the prostitutes frequented. Yes, that is why I was down there. I had a drug addiction from hell and this was an easy way to make money. Looking back, I am glad to be alive. No one I got high with is still alive. Anyway, I asked Rick a question I had always wanted to know. How did Cheap Trick get its name?  I am sure he knew why I was on 7th Street at different times and his answer was "well, one night I was leaving the shop and a girl asked if I wanted a date.  I asked her how much. She told me $20 and I explained that all I had was $10. She called me a cheap trick, and I decided that should be the band name." 

     Like I said, it's probably not true. It is funny though!