My Fair Lazy - Jen Lancaster [44]
Despite the weather, I’m glad for another opportunity to work toward my Jenaissance. I couldn’t have started this whole process of self-improvement at a more fortuitous time because I’ve got to get my fat mouth in check soon. It’s not just that people think I’m a jerk; that’s nothing new. But lately my thoughtless chatter has cost me serious cash. Case in point? The new television. We didn’t get it because we both wanted it or planned for it or, for that matter, even agreed on it. Nope, I kind of had to buy it for Fletch because I said something dumb.
My favorite indie book store, the Book Cellar,89 arranged a rock-and-roll book event, and my friend Jolene was in town to participate. She wrote a memoir about being a Goth girl in the eighties and how music helped her through a desperately dark time in her life. A few other authors were included—one woman who wrote a YA novel about how punk rock led her back to her mother and another guy with the best title ever—Hairstyles of the Damned. The last author at the event was Chris Connelly.
According to Fletch, if you don’t have the musical sensibilities of a strip club DJ, you’ll recognize his name. Should your memory need refreshing, Chris played with Ministry, RevCo,90 and Pigface, all of whom are famous for their groundbreaking work on the industrial music scene. Chris wrote a genuine life-of-an-alternative-rock-star memoir, which he read from at the event.
Jolene had to point Chris out to me at first because I was expecting a mohawked/dreadlocked/guy-linered thrash rocker all done up in leather and skinny jeans and anarchy patches. What I didn’t expect was an affable fellow with a haircut that could pass muster at any investment bank. He was clad in a green wool sweater and regular old loose-fit jeans and looked exactly like someone you’d ping for advice about whether organic heirloom tomatoes were in season if he was shopping beside you at Whole Foods. Seeing him messed with my preconceptions—I didn’t know you could be punk rock without looking punk rock.
I decided to ask Chris to sign a book for Fletch because he was in some of his all-time-favorite bands and Fletch has such respect for him. In fact, he credits Chris’s music for his own Renaissance.91 Last summer, Fletch was drowning in job stress and drinking more than he should to compensate, and he wasn’t happy with his overall physical and mental state. Although he enjoyed working out, he’d yet to make it a habit. One morning, he woke up early and decided that instead of rolling over and going back to sleep, he’d get up and go to the gym. He’d put on his iPod and crank RevCo, and that would inspire him to push harder every time he hit the gym.
Now he gets up at four a.m. almost every day to lift weights before work. His dedication to his new lifestyle is an inspiration. He’s energized, he’s happy, and he’s lost a good twenty pounds. He looks and feels better now than he did in college. Cocktails are for special occasions because otherwise they mess up his workout schedule. I’m superproud of him and I only resent him a tiny bit for not starting the summer before when I was working on Such a Pretty Fat.92
Anyway, when it was my turn to get the book signed, I recognized the gravity of the situation and my nervous-talking thing took hold and my mouth hip-checked my decorum into the wall.
“Ohmigod, hi, Chris, hi!” I exclaimed, thrusting a copy of his book at him. “Can you make this out to Fletch? That’s my husband and I want this for him because he spends every morning at the gym with you! You’ve, like, totally turned his life around and he’s all healthy now because of your music, which frankly is a bit shouty for me, but that’s neither here nor there. Point is that every day at the ass crack of dawn he’s up and he