I am engrossed in an article in this month’s vanity fair (the funny ladies issue) about the era when the incredibly successful singer songwriter ladies emerged – namely Carole King, Joni Mitchell, and Carly Simon. I love how these insanely gifted ladies were constantly getting laid by their starstruck fans, celebrity and otherwise. There’s an awesome story about Warren Beatty showing up at Carly’s dressing room door and then following her back to her hotel. He was insistant on fucking her. Insistant.
I had a friend in town the other day and on our way back from the beach we started blasting Carly’s “Coming Around Again.” Ghetto style. Open windows, top volume. It felt amaaaazing. We started talking about how a good “by the time I’m 40″ goal would be to just become Carly Simon. Put on a poncho, drink some wine, frizz out the hair, have a tryst with some occasional lover and then come home to an overpillowed couch and listen to records while talking on the phone to your best friend who just did the same thing. There’s something about that specific, natural woman seventies femininity that I find so comforting, so familiar. Maybe because it makes me think of my mom when she was in her thirties and raising my siblings and me. She had the hair and the poncho and these really cool kind of yellowey sunglasses, and she smelled like some kind of sweet musk. She had Carly’s big smile and the cutest gap between her front teeth.
I have also been listening obsessively to Bette Midler’s version “Do You Wanna Dance,” which I find calming in the same way. Its a great sex song. She basically makes herself come midway through the song simply because she knows she’s so awesome.
There’s just something so sexy about these ladies, with their big noses and unconventional looks, powerful voices, and probably huge bushes. I was in Beverly Hills yesterday with a friend at a restaurant and every now and then a little gaggle of skinny bitches would clomp in, their high heeled feet clopping loudly on the ground like hooves. Like a bunch of skanky Bud Clydesdales pulling a wagon of cuntitude. Ugh. They should read this Vanity Fair article. Take off the heels. Grow out your pubes. And try singing a song, you dummies.